


The Logical Choice

by writerfan2013



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek 2009
Genre: Accidental Bonding, F/M, Romance, Vulcans are appealing to many human females, kissing has consequences, minor telepathic sex, narrow escape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 33,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerfan2013/pseuds/writerfan2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An imagined first meeting between Uhura and Spock at the Academy. There is respect, and interest, and the promise of something more. This was a mere oneshot, but thanks to the lovely feedback from readers - there will be more. However, please don't expect plot, I am doing this for fun. And for the romance.  Also, I may veer wildly from canon as I am new to this fandom. Just saying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light and quick

For a man with the ability to sublimate logic above emotion, he has a very sensuous and expressive mouth.

This is Uhura's third thought on meeting Commander Spock. First came pure reaction, awe at being here in his lecture hall, at the fact of his presence. He is a legend around the academy and not only for being statistically unusual as an alien in a still firmly humanocentric fleet.

Second came admiration. She has been reading his proofs and theories for so long that she thinks of them as fixed, as stone tablets which he carved over many weeks of painstaking labour. Now, in flesh and blood she sees how it is cleverer than that, sees how light and quick his mind is, how it can assess a scenario with a single touch -the image in her mind is of a hand, making the lotus gesture - and draw from it the salient points, like finding and pulling a single stray headhair from fairground candyfloss, obvious and crass once it is in your hand, but first you have to know that it is there, and how to get hold of it without coating your fingers in the sugary mess.

Only then, as she sat transfixed, her notes abandoned and her eyes wide taking him in, did she see that Spock's face, supposedly incapable of emotion, is as bright with passion and humour as anyone's she has ever seen.

She liked him at once, and hoped that as her studies progressed, she would have a chance to get to know him, even to become friends with him. For it is obvious that even though his lectures crackle with wry observations and gripping first-hand experiences, the Vulcan finds giving these talks a one-sided, draining process. The audience expect him to feel nothing, and so it gives little back.

Uhura smiles at the funny parts and breathes in the blow-by-blow analyses of complex battle scenarios and lets the direct quotations of passages from key alien texts flow over her as naturally as possible so that the words lose their strange taste and are only words feeding meaning and wisdom to her mind, unencumbered by notions about the race that originally spoke them. Spock's accent is impeccable in almost every language and he makes it easy to believe that the author of those exemplary stories stands in the room, handing knowledge directly to her brain across huge distance and layered centuries.

"You do know you close your eyes when he is quoting," whispers her friend to her after a particularly long piece on war and the strategies of a siege.

"It helps me concentrate," she replies without a pause.

Spock's eyes turn towards them and they bend over their notes.

She is sitting, eyes closed, one day as he reads aloud - from memory - the difficult sacred text of a race so obscure that their language alone survived in a book of calfskin fragments, their homeworld long empty and their people absorbed into the diaspora of life in general across the galaxy - when she hears him make a mistake.

Her hand rises without her having to think about it.

Spock completes the piece without hesitation and then says, "Yes, Uhura?"

Her name in his mouth is precise and melodic, a hard thing for any tongue to manage. "The word 'person' is wrong in that passage," she says baldly, and quotes it back to him. "'A person's destiny is in his belly, and every morsel he eats affects the outcome. A person knows this, is taught this, ought not to have to learn.'"

She pauses. The whole class is looking at her and Spock is waiting with one eyebrow raised.

"It should be, 'man', and 'woman'," she says. "A man's destiny is in his belly, and every morsel he eats affects the outcome. A woman knows this, is taught this, ought not to have to learn."

There is a ripple of suppressed alarm through the room. She is questioning the standard translation, insulting it, even, for such a blatant error, and the translator is standing at the front listening and calculating how he could best respond to such temerity.

"It changes the meaning," she adds unnecessarily. "It moves the piece from being bland and generic, a passage about understanding the consequences of your actions, to being very personal and direct, about how to protect future generations."

"Justify your change of word," says Spock calmly. He does not appear threatened by her assertion, or angry at its implication of his poor work. Of course. He does not display such things.

"The words as written are very similar," Uhura admits. "In this piece, context alone could not provide a justification for selecting one over the others."

"Then what," Spock asks, his dark eyes steady on her face.

"It is the rhythm," she says. "The very slight inflection of 'person' throws the rhythm out. When you replace it with 'man', then 'woman', it becomes perfect."

"Perfection is necessarily a subjective concept," Spock says. He glances up and to his left, and she knows that he is hearing the passage in his mind, with her translation instead of his.

She is trembling. When he informs her of her error she will be humiliated. But she cannot see any error, her translation is right... She simply knows it, feels it, with her inclination for language, and her ability to absorb more than words, to absorb the habitual patterns of a race's speech and writing.

Which will make her mistake even worse when he expounds on it to the class.

"You have made a valid argument,' says Spock.

His gaze travels back to her face. "Please come and see me after class."

Oh no, he is going to have words with her about questioning his authority. She nods, blushing, and manages to say "Yes, Commander," before he moves on to the next topic.

She feels, every moment through the rest of the lecture, that his eye is on her, quelling any impulse she might have to make additional unwelcome contributions.

She stands outside his office at the end of the day, missing drinks with her friends, missing the best chance of a truly hot shower while everyone is at those drinks, and hearing the alien words again.

Spock's door opens and a chastened student scurries out clutching his notebook. The guy gives Uhura a look as if to say he doesn't envy her, being next on Spock's list.

"Come in," Spock says in his gentle way and Uhura enters his neat little office. It is light and bare: a desk, chairs, a window, a reading bench and a small closed cabinet. There are shelves, but nothing is displayed on them.

Spock gestures to two chairs placed on the near side of his desk, and they sit.

A large notebook lies on the desk, the ancient text already glowing on its screen. "I have been considering this all day," he says, and glances at her.

He is smiling, just slightly. She has a sense of great excitement about him as he highlights the passage she has questioned. Has he really been thinking about it ever since the lecture?

"I feel sure I'm right," says Uhura, "but if I have missed something, please explain what it is so that I can understand."

Spock lays his fingers on the words and speaks softly. In the ancient language his voice is light and lyrical, a fleeting touch on each syllable and then away to the next. She watches his face as his hand traces the meanings across the page.

"Something has always puzzled me about this piece," he says at the end. "It is not well matched. This work is balanced, in the way of everything we have discovered about them, each word with an answering one, each sentence weighed against its partner. Yet this passage is off kilter. I have always dismissed this, attributing it to the centuries which have passed since its writing, but now when I read it the passage jars again."

He turns to her. That smile. "But when you translate the gendered words rather than the generic, the rhythm is altered, and a natural pause, as the comparison is made between male and female perspectives, sets the balance right again."

He is pleased. "Thank you, Uhura, for alerting me to this point."

Her heart is beating rapidly. She was sure he was going to be sarcastic about assumptions of superiority when youth and inexperience make superiority unlikely.

Instead he is ... delighted. She has solved a puzzle, an academic niggle and he is not annoyed at all.

She is aware of his chair, his knee, next to hers. She has never been this close to him before; usually ten rows of people separate them. She smells standard issue laundry fluid, and a peppery scent which makes her think of tiny dishes laid on a carpet, each holding a teaspoon of a fragrant spice, carried across the void to be shown in a secret auction where only merchant and buyer know the price. It is like that, a blend of things too rare to name.

She notices his mouth then, plump and soft, a contrast to his sharp brows. His lips curve at the ends, drawing the eye up across his cheekbones to his ears, the unmistakable evidence of his otherness.

"Thank you," she replies, lifting her eyes to meet his even gaze. Has she been staring? She feels a blush at the very idea, it is nothing to do with him being alien, oh please, let him not have thought she is staring. "I was afraid that you would be offended, that I had hurt your pride. Academic pride," she adds, digging the hole deeper, what is wrong with her, who cares what she thinks?

Spock regards her gravely. "Pride is an illogical response to an academic point," he says. "I believe pride has set us back many times when enthusiasm might have led us sooner to the truth."

She blinks.

"You have great aptitude for language," he says. "I have often observed it."

"I love language," she says. "It holds the key to understanding other cultures." She is babbling again, irrelevancies in which he can have no interest.

He twitches an eyebrow. Is he laughing at her own... enthusiasm? "You have something else which even the most naturally able student often lacks," he goes on. "You have a true passion for your subject, and for that I commend you."

He nods at her, which she takes for dismissal.

They stand, and again he is close to her. "I would like you to review this entire work with me," he says. "Your eye is fresh and your ideas unburdened by convention. It might form part of your thesis."

It is a question, an offer to work with Spock himself- on such a project! She is breathless.

"The original manuscript is in my library," he adds casually, as if two thousand year old hand-inked hide is the kind of thing every tutor has ready access to.

She is grinning at this opportunity. "Thank you," she says. "Yes, I would love that, thank you, thank you so much." She could hug him.

He is amused. His eyes are bright and his smile is not as well suppressed as in lecture hall. He is not as old as she thought, she realises, though of course he and she are worlds apart in knowledge and experience.

"Thank you," she says again, and now it sounds foolish, the last thing she wants to present to him.

"You are the logical choice," he says, and she carries those words back to her room and they remain in her mind all night, like the highest praise.


	2. Not indicative

Humans are so unworried by their emotions. They allow feelings to bubble up inside and spill out into conversation, expression, gesture, action, without so much as a thought for the appearance of this, or its consequences. This is not how he has been brought up. Feelings may swell and surge but the outward appearance must be one of calm, and always the mind must assess the situation based on bare facts alone, remaining unfettered to any colour of emotion.

Humans exist in a welter of drama and reaction. It is their normal state. It is fascinating, not so much the exhausting round of ups and downs which every human experiences from waking to sleep each day, and beyond, for dreams contain powerful emotions, and he must assume that full humans dream as vividly as he does – but for the effects it has on their lives and the lives of others.

If a human has suffered a minor personal loss – for example, the death of a domesticated animal – he or she is far more likely to present as confused, bewildered, battered, grieving – than if they have suffered the loss of someone close to them – a parent, for example. In that case they present stoicism, a willingness to get on with their work or their family duties, and a tendency towards grim-faced silence.

Why? Why is the death of a pet allowed to intrude on every activity for a number of days, yet that of a beloved parent or friend is repressed, causing untold mental damage, and in the long term, the reappearance of the trauma in some unwelcome form?

It is what humans do: their social structures are built on such reactions. For all this they are amazingly resilient. Spock has never stopped being impressed with how a human can suffer and yet still carry on. He imagines that were he burdened by such wild emotions, he would be flattened before the end of the first day, unable to function. Yet men, women and children sob and laugh and rage and still go to school or work, are still productive to more or less normal levels, can remain relatively useful.

It is intriguing and – he admits it – appealing. He admires humans for this strength, the strength which many races consider a weakness.

The cadet Uhura is a case in point. When he suggested the translation review, she was so delighted that her feelings became irrepressible. She beamed, fidgeted, blinked many times, repeated herself. She had completely lost control of the feelings simmering beneath the surface.

She used the word love twice in two minutes – to describe an academic pursuit.

Spock understands that in Starfleet standard, the word love covers many layers of affection and devotion, from a mild interest – I love your hair today! – to undying passion for the person considered as a life partner – I will always love you. There are many types of feeling which are all called love, and Spock has direct knowledge of only a few, such as the love between a parent and child.

When Uhura said the word, however, his understanding tended towards the far end of the spectrum, the end where passion and devotion and pleasure and pride crowd together in a single word. She was placing her consciousness of privilege at being invited to participate in this project, high upon her personal scale of appreciation and describing it in terms of deep affection and joy.

Spock recalls that he did himself describe her, accurately, as having passion for her subject.

He also admired her for it, aloud.

This was an unusual step for him. Dedication would have been the more correct attribute to praise. Perhaps insight. But he selected passion, because it was what he saw in her at that moment. The kind of tenacity which allows a person to challenge their tutor; the kind of focus which does not care if this is socially acceptable to those who hear the challenge. Passion.

He understands this completely for he experiences those moments too: he thinks of them as moments of clarity, certainty, pure focus. The sensation of absolute rightness when a word is the correct one. This can occur without any danger of clouding by sentiment or ego: it occurs when the brain has fully assimilated a language or other complex system, and can generate new parts of the system using the rules which have been absorbed. This leads to certainty, and this leads to those sensations of rightness.

He lies in bed now, allowing his body its requisite eight hours of repose even as his mind continues to work, and considers himself, and passion, once again.

Uhura is a passionate human.

He is half a Vulcan.

She looked closely at his mouth, as if seeking its every detail for later recall. He had found that slightly uncomfortable.

She looked at his ears, too. He felt them tingle with additional, unnecessary blood supply – the Vulcan expression of embarrassment. Invisible to humans, fortunately. Her gaze explored his face, his head, in a most personal way before she realised she was doing it and was herself embarrassed.

Then he had found it entertaining, that a blush could transfer between two people so quickly and completely, and had smiled at her, and amazed her.

Humans tend to think that Vulcans do not smile. This is not the case. Vulcans do many of the things which humans do. It may not mean the same thing, and it is definitely not shared as humans freely expose every nuance of their inner selves whether buying a bus ticket or mourning a great leader – but emotions exist. They are simply better regulated, and acted upon only when the situation has been assessed without reference to those personal feelings.

Spock shifts a little in his resting position, and opens his eyes.

Here are personal feelings now, nearer the surface than usual because of proximity to sleep.

Uhura is a passionate person. This consideration gives him a feeling: excitement. Academic excitement, at the prospect of working with a young mind such as hers, a mind untainted by incorrect assumptions. Personal excitement, too.

He dwells on this for a short time. Uhura saying the word love (twice) in her mellow voice. Looking at him with shining eyes. Examining his mouth. Gazing at his ears.

Yes: personal excitement. It is natural to encounter such feelings, at his age, on occasion, when in company with a female. It is not indicative of any problem, or any action which needs to be taken.

He rests his hands loosely on his abdomen. As he closes his eyes he sees Uhura, leaning towards him with her lips parted, saying, I love language. His memory is excellent and he can recall her expression, her words, the sound of her voice, and even her warm scent. She smells of open spaces and green air, Earth air.

He remembers her eyelashes, tilted downwards as she memorized his mouth.

It is not indicative. No action needs to be taken.


	3. Sympathetic vibrations

Necessarily there are lunches. This is to be expected, that one might eat with one's colleague when the need for sustenance intrudes upon the work in progress. It is also a custom across the known galaxy, to break bread with compatriots as a sign of common interest, specifically, common interest in survival, in preventing conflict, in continuing peacefully and productively as far as is possible.

And so Spock accompanies Cadet Uhura to the nearest canteen during the hour designated for eating lunch, on several occasions (four so far). He experiences the feeling of being looked at as they enter the room, not because of who he is, but because of who she is: her friends wave and call greetings. She grins and hails them in return with teasing remarks and exaggerated facial expressions meant to convey mockery and envy and scorn, but all at levels well within the spectrum of camaraderie shared between cadets and friends who have difficult lectures, coursework deadlines and complicated social lives.

Spock is swept up with her, joining her friends at their table, and after a moment during which they all recoil at his rank and alien nature, these young humans, he is accepted and he sits beside Uhura and watches as she banters with them, her full range of emotions in plain view now, not guarded as she is when alone in his office with him. She laughs and gestures with a bread stick and fends off the attentions of male cadets, usually without even having to make full eye contact.

One such is the cadet Kirk, who is always there, at the centre of these midday festivities, a fresh faced boy who treats Uhura with great disrespect. Spock is prepared to dislike him, but observes that he treats everyone with disrespect, including Spock – after a microsecond pause during which rank is discounted because of their shared table – and the man who is clearly his chosen friend, McCoy. Kirk is not basing his behaviour on a negative assessment of those around him; indeed, he is not basing it on any assessment at all. He merely treats everyone as his equal and ignores rank or gender considerations until they become pertinent to his own advantage.

Spock admits that this is in fact a logical approach to interaction. However it does not take into account proper protocol at Starfleet academy.

He points this out on his second lunch at their table, and Kirk splutters into his soda and says, "It's lunchtime and my sandwich outranks you right now, Commander Spock."

Everyone around the table freezes; Spock sees McCoy, a slightly older cadet with world-weary lines round his eyes, ready himself to take Kirk aside and explain the situation in words of one syllable.

But Spock follows a lunchtime impulse of his own and says, "I believe hunger can be considered a motivator superior to many social niceties," and Kirk clashes his glass into Spock's and grins, and Spock feels oddly pleased that his minor gambit in human idiom has been successful.

After this Spock waits with keen anticipation for Uhura to glance at the midday clock, and sits at the table with these friends of hers, watching them in fascination and enjoying the unfamiliar sensations of teasing and solidarity coursing between them, sounding echoes in his chest like sympathetic vibrations on a stringed instrument placed near a concert hall. He feels it physically, in his abdomen, like warmth, like yearning; and in proximity to them as he is, he feels it in his mind, too, fuzzy and incomplete, but providing some context for the complex emotions which fly about between these humans, even over a hasty sandwich and carbonated drink.

Uhura turns her eyes to him frequently, especially when Kirk is present, seeming to reassure herself that Spock is coping with the brash attentions of her classmates. He is. He has no way to confide this fact to her save to return her gaze steadily and calmly, attempting to convey that he is content to be here, and that eating in company in no way disturbs his general wellbeing.

For her part, she smiles at him, and frowns at people to budge up and make room for both of them on the bench, rather than have him sit apart from her at some other place around the table.


	4. Protocol

Uhura's hair irks her. She wears it down when not in class, up when studying or in cadet uniform. It should be simple. Yet tonight she attends an academic seminar considering the microsocietal impacts of deep space exploration on the exploring crew, with Commander Spock, and she has just spent ten minutes failing to decide whether her hair should be tied back or loose around her shoulders.

The seminar is after hours, and includes a drinks reception on the broad terrace outside the lecture hall, and the chance to mingle there with speakers and guests afterwards. Uniform is not required, but it has been made clear that this is an opportunity to network with potential future colleagues; formal attire is expected.

"Aren't you ready yet?" her roommate Garrick asks, finding Uhura still standing in front of the mirror in their minute bathroom. Garrick is a slightly older girl, from Edinburgh. She is not one for chitchat and her friendship with Uhura is amiable but cool. "Your thing starts in half an hour."

"I know. Hair up?" Uhura asks, demonstrating.

Garrick frowns. She stands behind Uhura and gently touches her hand to make her release the knot of hair. "It doesn't matter," Garrick says, meeting Uhura's gaze in the mirror. "What matters is that you care, and that is rather significant." She gives Uhura a pointed look.

Uhura snatches up a clip and arranges her hair swiftly so that it is pulled back from her face but falls loose onto the nape of her neck. A compromise, with her diamonique clip. Her cheeks are hot, and Garrick is smiling in amusement.

"A lot of people have crushes on their tutor," Garrick says mildly. She reaches for a bottle from her own side of the vanity and after a glance at Uhura for permission, spritzes her briefly. A mist of bright citrus fills the space.

"He's not my –" This is not how her reply should start. Obviously, Commander Spock is her tutor. "I don't have a crush on him."

She fiddles with make-up, and the shawl collar of her grey floor-length dress. Strange how her formalwear conceals more than her day to day clothing. She is exposing only her neck and collarbone. And her blush, Garrick's sardonic expression tells her. "I don't have a crush on Spock," Uhura repeats.

Garrick smirks. "I agree. It is not a crush at all, is it?" She draws Uhura out of the bathroom. "Now away, or you'll be late for this man who is not your something, on whom you do not have a crush."

Uhura puts her regular boots on under the dress, feeling better with their familiar solid heels beneath her, and stalks away.

* * *

The terrace outside the seminar room overlooks the main Academy plaza. The summer evening is bright and golden, and among the slender trees and sculptural fountains the plaza is abuzz with students enjoying free time. They sprawl and play impromptu ball games; their voices are slack and mellow.

Up on the terrace the sounds are of brisk, formulaic chatter, sharp with nerves. The seminar is prestigious, and many of the stars of the academic community are present. Uhura stands alone at the parapet, looking around, and realises gradually that her companion for the evening, who has not yet made an appearance, is one of those stars. A waiter offers her a drink and she takes a glass from his tray.

She smiles politely, awkwardly, at the other attendees, whilst her eyes search for Spock.

Then she sees him, at the centre of a group of excited people - the guest professors who have flown in for the seminar. They exclaim over him, and he responds with a serious expression, maintaining dignity even as they fawn.

She admires his confidence and steels herself to approach some of the other delegates and engage in career-enhancing seminar talk. She lifts her drink to take a preparatory sip and notices that it is a flute of champagne, which for the purposes of the seminar is labelled, _This is one luxury you would not enjoy on a deep space mission._

"Cadet Uhura."

Spock is beside her, in black, not his uniform but similar. The mere absence of his insignia lends him an off-duty air. He is holding a tumbler of cloudy liquid which bears the label, _Recycled fluids would be part of daily life._

"Commander." Uhura feels her whole body relax. She squints at Spock's drink. "Recycled from what?"

"That is one of the pertinent questions of the seminar: whether a crew should be fully aware of the extent of materials reuse, or whether ignorance is the preferable option for better morale." He holds her gaze, his eyes gleaming, and deliberately sips.

"Oh- I think I want to know, but on the other hand, I might be repulsed." All ships recycle, of course – but not for five years, the duration of the proposed deep space exploratory mission.

"Exactly." Spock drinks again, and she sips champagne, and he does not offer any clues about what is in his glass.

She has forgotten about mingling with the other delegates.

"Ok, I want to know," she says. "After all, all water is recycled by its very nature. We accept that. This is no different."

Spock tilts his head to one side. "You would be living in close quarters with many others, with whom you may have good relations or not. Might this affect your response to the source of this drink?"

"We would have become used to it," Uhura says. "It's like Academy showers but more so. We all know the water's been round a few times."

He blinks. "You do not ingest shower water."

"Not intentionally." She grins, and looks down into the bubbles rising to the top of her glass, bursting, tiny sounds of conclusion against the meniscus.

Spock frowns. "You have introduced the notion of choice. Choice would not be available on a deep space mission. You would eat and drink what was provided, or die."

Uhura considers this. She has been on space journeys, of course, and life on Earth is sustained by multiply-processed food and drink. This is little different. And yet Spock is correct: the idea of such dependency, for such a long period as would be needed to enter deep space, is claustrophobic. "You're right," she tells him. "We like the idea that there is an alternative here on Earth. That we could, I don't know, go out and hunt a rabbit, or something if we wanted to. The idea helps maintain..." She gropes for the word.

"The illusion of independence," he suggests, "when in our sophisticated age, no such thing is possible."

"Yes," she says. "Everything is in its umpteenth incarnation, especially food. For five years ... we would have to ignore the obvious. If we could."

Wordlessly he holds out his tumbler to her.

She swaps him her champagne flute and lifts the drink. "This is how it would be," Spock says softly as the glass touches her lips. "There would be no choice but to drink, only the choice to know, or not know, what it was that you were drinking."

The drink smells of mint, and ginger. Uhura takes a sip, feeling the sparkle of sugar on her tongue. She is conscious that Spock's mouth was on this glass a few moments ago, on the opposite side, seven centimetres away. She drinks, and hands the tumbler back to him.

Their fingers meet on the cool surface of the glass, and he says, "So, do you want to know?" His dark eyes flicker as he examines her expression. He does this a great deal, gazing at her for extended periods, interpreting human emotion, or, as now, searching for clues as to human thought.

"Yes," says Uhura. She draws back her hand.

Spock's lips curve upwards. "This is non alcoholic mint julep made with standard filtered rain capture." He drinks again with a smug expression.

She bursts out laughing. "You got me! You deliberately got me."

"You have demonstrated a willingness to endure potentially disturbing ideas and sensations in order to achieve your goal," Spock tells her. "This may indicate your suitability for long term missions."

"Or it may indicate that I am very gullible," she says. She grimaces, shakes her head in mock despair at herself. "How about you? Would you eat and drink whatever was on offer, no matter where it came from?"

"Of course," he says gravely. "Sustenance is a necessity for continued life; choice of sustenance is not."

"So why did you choose the supposedly recycled drink?" she asks.

He gives her a small bow. "I wanted to see what you would do." As his head is bent, he glances up at her quizzically.

She begins to blush all over – just at the idea that he is curious about her. It is because I am human, she thinks furiously. It is because he has never had a human as a friend. It is not because I am a woman.

She should not have thought that, and now Spock has noticed her discomfort, although he is giving no reaction. His gaze, again, travels over her face, then down to her curling hands, back up. She blushes harder, and fixes her gaze on the ground.

"The seminar is about to begin," Spock says. He gestures towards the door, and they stroll inside together.

* * *

The seminar is excellent: some brief serious talks, followed by Q-and-A, and then, once the attendees are relaxed, a role-play session for scenarios of isolated Starfleet ship societies in deep space. There is a mix of races present in the plush carpeted room, and Uhura's group includes a professor from Orion, plus an Arcadian cadet, and she is able to practise her cultural sensitivity without, she hopes, either of them noticing.

The delegates enact a situation in which unauthorised contact must be made with a new life form, in order to continue the mission.

Uhura can hear Spock, close by in his own group, calmly dictating Starfleet protocol and refusing to compromise even at the prospect of the loss of the ship.

There is a brief analysis of the social tendencies discovered during the role-play, and then a swap of groups and a new scenario, and Uhura finds herself trying to work out the best approach in an imagined situation in which disease threatens the ship. Looking around her group she recognises Kirk's friend McCoy, suave in evening wear and clutching a drink marked _Substance abuse is a very real risk when individuals and communities lack external input._

"Leonard."

He smiles in surprise and plants himself on the chair beside hers. "So, do we sacrifice ourselves in order to remain in isolation, or attempt to return to the homeworld, likely dooming our entire species?"

"Neither," says Uhura. "We fly until we can make contact with the nearest ship, and request help."

"Comms are down," says the group's moderator.

"We attempt to create a cure within the ship," suggests Uhura.

McCoy snorts. "You have an inflated idea of the capabilities of a Starfleet med bay. Half the time we don't even have anaesthetic."

"You're joking." She is uncertain: his cynical face, in combination with his flippant words, make him hard to read.

"You better hope I am." He is laughing at her.

"Would you try?" she asks. "To create a cure."

"Sure, I would try. But I'd also be prepping the escape pods for anyone not already infected." He gives a grim look around the group.

"In deep space, that's just a deferred death sentence," says Uhura.

"True."

They wrestle with the problem for a moment and others in the group make suggestions.

Uhura wonders what Spock's solution would be. Whatever it is, it will be perfect: a balance of the preservation of life where possible, whilst remaining true to the mission and of course protocol. He will explain it succinctly and earnestly and will not be persuaded to change his position by anything other than logic. She smiles to herself. Spock is unique.

As she looks up, McCoy's eye is on her. "Uhura," he says in a low voice. She raises her eyebrows. "Are you free for dinner with me Friday night?"

"Oh." She was not expecting that. McCoy is always such a gentleman, respectful, relying on sarcasm to distance himself from the politics of the group. She looks at him. He is clever and funny and has nice eyes. Uhura is single. There is no reason not to accept. "That would be nice," she says. "Thank you."

His eyes light up and then she knows that she has done a bad thing.

"Great," he says. "I'll pick you up at seven." He nods at her, delighted, and then regains his habitual cynical expression and moves to another part of the group.

Uhura sits wincing and wishing she could take back her whimsical acceptance, as the role play continues. She is aware of McCoy, now making no eye contact with her, self-conscious, but watching her whenever he thinks she has not seen. Dammit.

"You are troubled," Spock says, appearing beside Uhura as the seminar breaks up and the delegates move back onto the terrace for the farewell drinks. "Can I be of assistance?" He has brought them warm drinks, labelled _Reflect upon learning_ and _Seek all the options._

"I don't think so," she says, and bitterness wells up inside her. She sips her cocoa and it scalds her tongue.

Spock inclines his head, but does not move away.

"It's a personal thing," she says, feeling mean because it is not his fault if he feels nothing for her. And even if he did, even if that were possible, he is unlikely to make a move because she is his student. Relations between staff and cadets are not forbidden outright, but are frowned upon as pushing the bounds of protocol. And Spock is king of protocol.

"I do not mean to pry," he says. "I merely wish to ascertain that you are well."

"I am," she says.

There is a pause. The sun has set and now stars glitter overhead. Spock turns his face up and seems to be absorbing the night sky.

"They're beautiful" Uhura says. "Even though we know they are other worlds, other suns, destinations in a ship's computer, I still can't look at them as just places on the map. They are too glorious, even now."

"Beauty is subjective," Spock says. "There is no benefit to assigning aesthetic enjoyment to a view of stars."

"No, and yet I still do it," says Uhura. On impulse, she turns to him and says, "Will you walk me back to my room?"

"Will this help you?" he asks at once.

"Yes," she answers. It will help her spend ten more minutes in his company, which is all she wants.

"Then of course I will." He takes her drink and hands both mugs to a member of catering staff. "Since you are with me, we can take a shortcut through faculty quarters. It is the most efficient route."

They reach Uhura's room and stop outside her door. Garrick will be inside, studying, possibly with friends from her own classes. There is no privacy, and Uhura will probably go straight to bed.

"Thank you for inviting me tonight," she tells Spock. "It was really ..." She searches for a word he will understand. "Informative."

"Yes," he says.

The moment draws out and neither of them move.

What the hell, Uhura thinks then. It is nothing, it is convention, it is only being friendly –

She leans across and kisses Spock on the cheek. His skin is warm and smooth, and he stands perfectly still. "I had a lovely evening," she says. His breath is hot on her bare shoulder as she draws back.

"You are welcome," he replies, like somebody reading it from a card listing colloquialisms. But as she is about to key in her room code, Spock steps closer to her and presses his lips to her cheek, for a count of two, and then withdraws. "Goodnight" he says gently, with no expression in his eyes, and turns and walks away.

Uhura stands with her hand beside the keypad of her room for a long time, breathing slowly. She relives the touch of Spock's mouth over her cheekbone, and thinks that Garrick is right and this is not just a crush and Spock, in her mind, is definitely not her tutor.

**Author's note - this started to stray into _Soylent Green_ territory, sorry if I put people off their tea. But it has made me want to get down my Harry Harrison again, which can only be good.**


	5. Crisis

There is a crisis. In fact, there are two crises, but one is personal and affects only Spock and so he has set it aside in order to deal the better with the first one.

"Commander, you know I wouldn't ask in normal circumstances, but -" Pike gestures grimly. He is in full Captain's uniform, in Spock's office, at midday after the seminar, and he does not have good news. His weathered face is full of pain.

"The situation is clearly beyond the bounds of statistical normality," agrees Spock. "I will identify those cadets who are most ready and brief them immediately."

There has been a coup on a small world which only recently joined the federation: whilst its continuing membership now looks in doubt, more pressing has been the introduction of biological weapons into the planet's atmosphere. The poison is spreading quickly, and death is indiscriminate.

Med teams have already begun an evacuation of the world, still designated A109, but removing an entire planet's population is a feat better attempted with ten years' planning and endless resources, not twenty hours' notice and too few ships. Starfleet is sending everything it reasonably can in an effort to preserve life. And everything includes students.

"Thank you, Commander. And -" Pike hesitates.

Spock waits. His mind is already scrolling through the students' profiles, selecting and rejecting.

"I need you to take a command," says Pike. Your academic duties are suspended, effective immediately, and you will report to Starfleet command as soon as you have made your cadet selections."

It is not a suggestion."Yes, Captain," says Spock. "To what vessel am I assigned?"

Pike winces. "I'm sorry, but it's the _Churchill_."

Spock inclines his head. "Yes sir."

"It's had a total refit," Pike says. "Engineering has assured me that there will be no more anomalies. No more bad luck."

Spock gazes at him. Pike's clenched jaw and downturned mouth reveal anxiety and guilt at Spock's assignment. "I am unaffected by the irrational belief that the _Churchill_ is cursed, Captain."

"I know," says Pike. "That's why I assigned you. But your crew won't be as sanguine, believe me."

He claps Spock on the shoulder, causing Spock to look at him curiously. "Thanks Spock, and good luck. I'll see you at the briefing."

Spock takes out his PADD and begins sending the call-up messages.

* * *

"As cadets, you will follow the orders of the officers and full crew at all times. You are here to assist in the execution of a plan, and not to take initiatives or place your own lives in danger. Do not digress from the plan."

Spock pauses and surveys the cadets and crew amassed in the chilly hanger beside the shuttle class ship _Churchill_. The ship looms above them, fresh paint over new weld. The cadets are shuffling their feet, nervous and excited by the prospect of the mercy mission. They stand respectfully facing Spock, but their mouths are moving as they mutter to one another and Spock's sharp hearing catches a remark: "Enough already about the plan, we got it."

His eyes seek the source of the comment and, unsurprisingly, find Kirk. Spock glares at him. Kirk pouts but subsides.

"Some of you may be wondering why we have formed such a rigid strategy," Spock says. "I must inform you that despite our diplomatic efforts the anti-government forces surrounding A109 are resisting our efforts to rescue their people. It is likely that we will come under fire. It is almost inevitable that there will be casualties. Our task is to minimise loss of life and contain the situation as far as possible within the bounds of this mission."

The cadets still, hearing this. Good. It is best that they understand the implications of any deviation from the plan.

"That is all," says Spock. "Report to your stations."

He watches Kirk. The young man was chosen for his remarkable flying skills. He is to pilot a flying medbay, one of five on the _Churchill_. The sixth did not survive the refit.

Kirk struts off with McCoy, who Spock now knows as a competent and experienced doctor who will be a credit to any vessel once he graduates. McCoy looks keen enough, but lacks the aggressive enthusiasm displayed at all times by Kirk. Spock has assessed this as a human self defense measure: when the job involves constant exposure to suffering and death, an emotional human might well not be too eager to get to work.

Uhura follows Kirk and McCoy. Spock keeps his eyes trained on his PADD, but he can still see her in peripheral vision, neat and serious. She is to coordinate communications between the flying medbays, working with the ship's comma officer, and as such will be on the bridge with Spock. This is the correct station for her, and cannot be interpreted as anything other than logical.

-The incident after the seminar was dubiously rational. Spock chooses to interpret his action as merely following a human custom, out of courtesy. Humans exchange kisses for many reasons and on many types of occasion. Vulcans rarely engage in public kissing, reserving those signs of attachment for private moments. But it is not unprecedented for a colleague of any culture to return the token kiss of another, on the occasion of bidding goodnight.

In and of itself the situation remains explicable. Uhura kissed his cheek in an impulsive gesture of thanks (her soft mouth leaving a trace of moisture on his skin, and the lemon scent sprinkled across her shoulders tingling his nostrils) and Spock bestowed a brief kiss in kind (her eyes opening wide in surprise, her face tilting toward his).

But something else happened as he deliberately touched her skin with his own, and Spock must not think about that now, must work and perform his duties, because these matters are minor and personal and do not impact the greater good.

The cadets board the _Churchill_ , and Spock signs off on the mission orders and follows them.

The ship is barely inside the evacuation zone when the first thing goes wrong.


	6. Seal

Strike.

 

Uhura’s station is down. The techs race in to try to fix it but now she has no way to do her job and is effectively redundant. All around her in the bright, sharp space of the bridge, officers are hustling to find what has happened.  Spock, in black, is in his captain’s chair, taut with attention to the streams of information being directed to him. Uhura stands.  “Commander, permission to do face to face coordination of the flying medbays.”

 

He turns his head towards her, locks eyes. ”Granted. There is a comms station in the connecting corridor.” His expression is set, completely free from emotion.  This is where he excels. Uhura nods. Spock turns back, assessing other damage, giving calm but rapid orders for evasive action, shields, and confirmation of identity before any fire is returned.

 

Uhura takes the elevator down to the medbays. She finds her new station, in the passage with three medbays either side – five active ones plus disused number six – and access to the ship’s main medical facilities at the far end.  Uhura stands, puts on the headset and starts calling up the five flying bays.

 

“What's up?” calls McCoy from number four just opposite her station, glimpsing her outside. He is in doctor’s scrubs, a scanner in his hand.

 

“Enemy strike,” she says, “bridge comms are down. Prep for flight, you're away in three minutes.”

 

She hears him relay this to Kirk as the door slips shut.  Each of these bays has a fast seal to the corridor: it was prototype technology at the time the _Churchill_ was developed.  The seals are more reactive than a traditional airlock, allowing patients to be transferred almost immediately the medbay is fully inside the mother ship.  Uhura has never seen this kind of seal before – it looks like an amber rubber rim around each door - but it certainly is fast: the medbays are airtight and pressurised correctly within a second.

 

And then her comms are back online, and Kirk’s voice is in her ear telling her everything is strapped down and they are awaiting co ordinates.

 

Spock sends the first set of destinations - various ports on the massive carrier which lifted a city's worth of people out of atmosphere.  The carrier is now being guarded by other Starfleet vessels. Spock's task is to retrieve those exposed to the poison and move them off to the designated hospital ship _Restorative_ , releasing the carrier for warp. The _Churchill_ will then resume regular shuttle duties and remove as many people as possible from what is now in effect a war zone.

 

“Medbay one away,” says Uhura, and all doors seal and she sits strapped in as the first medbay peels off and dives for the carrier ship. “Medbay two,” commands Uhura.

 

They work steadily for over an hour, Uhura relaying positions from the bridge as Spock continues evasive manoeuvres. It takes time to move sick people, and every moment leaves the _Churchill_ exposed and vulnerable, because the first strike left the ship without full weapons capacity.

 

“And it wasn't that great to start with,” McCoy says, walking past Uhura between bays. He wears elbow length latex gloves and his mask is hanging round his neck. “This ship is cursed, you know that right?”

 

“Spock's in control,” says Uhura. “Tell me when you're clear to go,” she says.

 

“Will do.” He nods at her and steps back to medbay four.

 

The next return is not so smooth. Uhura hears a call from the bridge “Hold your fire it's ours,” and voices saying, “Is it?” as if they do not recognise the vessel, and then horrified exclamations as it approaches. Uhura’s station lights up with a docking request and she sees it is medbay four coming back, badly damaged, and she slams open the seal and watches the monitor as it docks perfectly but very quickly. She snaps the outer airlock shut again so that the bay is fully inside the ship. “Medbay four returned,” she reports to Spock, and jumps up, unsealing medbay four.

 

There is chaos inside the medbay, and smoke, and patients on the floor having been thrown from their stretchers.  Uhura moves to help the nurses move people out of the smoke, but McCoy yells at her to keep clear because of contamination.  Uhura calls for assistance as McCoy marshals everybody into the passage. “Kirk's hit,” he says, “we’re going to need another pilot.”

 

“Who just docked?” she says. “It was textbook.”

 

“He did.”  McCoy’s face shows frustrated admiration.

 

Uhura sees Kirk then, propped between two nurses, bleeding from the head and with one arm limp at his side. He is protesting that he can, that he is fine because he just flew back just fine and there is no need for a fresh pilot, he can do this -

 

“Backup pilot for medbay four,” calls Uhura as Kirk staggers.

 

“Get him to the main medbay,” McCoy orders, and when Kirk resists, lifts him bodily and drags him to the corridor.

 

Which is why the three of them are in the corridor when the ship’s airlock on medbay four blows.

 

Uhura hears the alert in her earpiece and smacks her hand down on the emergency air seal command on her comms station even as the corridor rocks with some fresh impact. Medbay four seals instantly and people rush into the other bays. McCoy, still holding Kirk, stumbles and falls as the corridor empties of people.

 

“That seal won’t hold,” Kirk mutters.  Uhura is hauling at him and McCoy, dragging them to their feet.  “It was only half good to start with.”

 

“The corridor’s going to decompress,” says McCoy, quite calmly. But Uhura sees the fear in his eyes.

 

All other medbay doors are now sealed, the corridor is locked down and everyone is safe. Everyone except them.

 

Uhura contacts the bridge. “We are in the corridor outside medbay four and its seal is losing pressure. All patients and staff are sealed in medbays one to three and five - “

 

Spock’s gentle voice cuts in. “Can you exit the corridor?” he asks.

 

“No,” says Uhura. “I activated lockdown to protect the rest of the ship.” And because the _Churchill_ has a stupid design.

 

“Bridge out,” says Spock. She blinks. No suggestions?  But theirs is not the only crisis on the ship. There are a hundred other areas to think about -

 

“Medbay six,” Uhura says then.

 

“It was not refitted,” says McCoy.

 

“But it’s still there,” says Uhura. And because it is deemed inactive, it was not on the lockdown loop she just activated. She punches the controls. “Storage. Still sealed  - yes –“

 

McCoy is dragging Kirk towards it. “Open it,” he says.

 

“Checking status,” snaps Uhura. “It could be compromised behind the seal.”

 

It is not. She releases the door and Kirk and McCoy stagger through it

 

McCoy turns back towards her calling her name as the air begins its accelerating suck out through the deteriorating seal of medbay four. She steps towards him as if against a cliff-top wind, one leg, the next, reaching out for him as her slowness places then all in danger, and then feels his firm hands on her wrists and she is hauled into medbay six, and she gasps to Spock, “Isolate the area,” as the doors hiss shut.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Well, this is good. We’re in a closet with no suits in an isolated part of the ship.” McCoy is kneeling on the floor beside Kirk, feeling his shoulder while Kirk winces and yells, swiping at McCoy with his good arm.

 

“Uhura to bridge. Can you hear me? -There is no response from the bridge,” Uhura says. She has her earpiece only.

 

“Great, just great. We're stuck, we have no idea if this place will disintegrate around us and no way to rejoin the ship.” McCoy takes Kirk’s shoulder and wrist and without warning jerks sharply. Kirk howls.

 

“They'll come and get us,” says Uhura.

 

“They’re busy,” says Kirk, panting and scowling at McCoy.  “We've been surrounded by anti government ships. The _Restorative_ is under fire and we’re caught between it and the carrier.”

 

“Oh.”

 

They contemplate this for a moment.

 

“Your shoulder’s back in,” McCoy says to Kirk. “Don’t thank me.”

 

The space is medbay shaped, still, but with no fittings. The lights are bare and the walls are full of empty panels where equipment has been ripped out. There is the pilot’s seat, comms seat, plus two bed niches in the wall. That is all.

 

Uhura describes this to the bridge although there is no response. She goes to the comms station. “It’s dead,” she says.

 

“Big surprise,” says McCoy. He checks over Kirk’s head injury, frowning.  “You’ve lost a few brain cells.  Shouldn’t make any difference. You're good to go.” He helps Kirk to stand.

 

“Except we can’t go anywhere,” Kirk says, and lowers himself into the pilot’s seat. “So this was never touched?”

 

“I don't think so,” says Uhura. “The refit was phased. It’s been stripped but not redone yet.”

 

“So...” Kirk has a gleam in his eyes. “It was a flying medbay before....”

 

“No,” says McCoy. “You have no idea if it is airworthy.”

 

“We’re still here, aren’t we?”

 

“You want to fly it,” says Uhura.

 

Kirk is activating controls - flipping switches and strapping in. “Strap in and keep talking to the bridge,” he tells Uhura. “Bones, help me with this. My arm –“ His arm is still, effectively, useless.

 

“I’m a doctor, not a pilot!” But he straps into the comms seat

 

“It won't release,” says Uhura. She is still doing as Kirk asks, though, stretching out on the bed niches and pulling its restraints across her. There is nowhere else to tie in. “Release is controlled from out there.” She gestures to the corridor where behind the seal a vacuum is forming.

 

“There’s a manual override in here,” says Kirk.

 

“How do you know?” asks McCoy.

 

Kirk gives him an incredulous look. “I read the manual before coming on this mission,” he says, affronted.

 

“Really?” say McCoy and Uhura in unison.

 

“Yes really!” He searches for the override. “Got it.”

 

“We're going to fly free,” Uhura tells the bridge. “If you can hear this please release medbay six. Repeat, please release medbay six. If not we will override and rendezvous with – “she hesitates. Space outside is filled with antigovernment ships and the _Churchill_ ’s returning fire. Options are limited. “With Starfleet hospital ship _Restorative_. Alert them to our progress.”

 

Nothing.  Absolute silence.

 

“Here goes,” says Kirk, and punches it.

 

 

* * *

  

 

“I’ve got the bridge,” Uhura says as they clear the _Churchill_ and make for the hospital ship.  She cannot see the monitors but knows – can feel – that Kirk is dodging debris or fire.  She can see McCoy gritting his teeth and trying to keep up with Kirk’s instructions.

 

Kirk talks rapidly into his comms set, but stops. “I can hear them but they can’t hear me,” he says.

 

“Wonderful,” says McCoy. He is incongruous in doctor’s scrubs in a comms officer’s chair.

 

“I can try to fix it – “Uhura starts to unstrap.

 

“Stay there,” orders Kirk. “We’re going to have to move – “

 

They are thrown side to side as Kirk weaves between lethal obstacles. “That was close,” Kirk says cheerfully, his mood greatly improved by some proper danger.

 

“I’m happy with not at all close, by the way,” McCoy says. “Happier still to just get into that hospital so I can do my job and not have to worry about, say, the ship I’m in crumbling around my ears.”

 

“Quit griping,” says Kirk. “I’m getting there as fast as I can.”

 

Uhura can hear the bridge in her ear. Spock is busy: coolly he is giving orders, listening to reports, relaying messages to the other captains of Starfleet ships all around. He sounds as calm as when he is standing in the lecture hall describing a thousand year old text which illustrates some esoteric combat strategy. Vulcans don’t feel, she thinks.

 

Except that they do, or at least, Spock does. During the course of their friendship he has expressed excitement and amusement and anger. And if he feels those things, then he can certainly feel anxiety and fear.

 

Vulcans feel, all right. But they choose to hide their emotions, to control them inwardly and repress them outwardly so that rational thought and not emotion is at the heart of their daily actions. Perfect Starfleet commanders, in other words. Uhura wonders that there are not more Vulcan officers in Starfleet.

 

She gives a status report even though the bridge cannot hear it, and hails the hospital ship, requesting a dock. She passes the details to Kirk and he begins the final manoeuvre, flying smoothly as if he is not covered in blood with a dislocated arm.

 

Then Uhura hears Spock’s voice asking, “Position update on medbay six.” His voice is clipped and tense. Uhura responds, “About to dock with hospital ship,” but they still cannot hear her. Spock has said something over her words. It ends in, “...then please _make_ it work so that I can communicate with them,” and he is full of restrained fury at the damaged comms, and whoever he has just instructed will be leaping to obey because Spock’s wrath at sloppy work is legendary.

 

Uhura unclips her straps.  “I’m going to fix that station –“

 

“Hang on,” Kirk says suddenly in an odd tone. “We’re coming in, but it looks like their docking door is only partially open, this could be a little –“

 

And Uhura is slammed against the floor and she feels a rib crack in her chest and her head hits the edge of the bed and then blackness presses on her eyes and it is a relief to become absent.

 


	7. Silver fire

"Easy, easy. Don't try to move."

Uhura opens her eyes. McCoy is standing beside her. She is on a medbay bed, in a bright-lit, fully equipped medbay. They are no longer in medbay six of the _Churchill_ , then. "Spock," she says, thinking that he will want to know what is happening. It comes out vague and rough; her mouth is dry and rubbery.

McCoy's hands are on her, exploring her ribcage. "You have a cracked rib," he says, "I've taped you up but movement is going to hurt." He checks her monitor, nods in satisfaction. "You're full of painkiller right now so just take it easy. You're lucky – no punctured lung."

"I feel so lucky,"Uhura says thickly. She raises her head. "This is the hospital ship?" The medbay is busy with patients and nurses. McCoy is slightly unshaven; he looks exhausted but happy.

"We've been on the _Restorative_ around eight hours. The _Churchill_ completed its part of the mission and then we both warped here – we're just into Earth's space now."

"Where's Kirk?" Uhura asks.

"In x-ray," says McCoy. "His head needed examining." He glances at Uhura and they smile at each other. "I'm glad you're ok," says McCoy.

"I'm glad you and Kirk were with me," Uhura tells him. "I couldn't have patched Kirk up and I certainly couldn't have piloted that medbay." She rests her head back on the pillow. It seems very unfair that she has been injured before she could do anything useful. Her one act was to seal off the corridor, potentially dooming the three of them.

McCoy hesitates. "You had a visitor," he says. "Commander Spock."

"Here?"

"Yes. Beamed across as soon as we and the _Churchill_ left warp. Came to see us." McCoy makes a face. "Came to see you," he amends.

Uhura feels her heart speeding up. It does not help with the throbbing in her ribcage.

"Spock came straight to you," McCoy says. "You were still out of it. I told him you were just concussed but that was not enough for him. He did that thing, the Vulcan psychic thing with the fingers on your face." He winces, obviously uncomfortable with this memory.

"Oh," says Uhura because she cannot think what to make of this. She thinks of Spock, leaning over her with his bright, intelligent eyes, holding his fingers –how? She has never seen it done – and pressing them on her face to read her mind as she slept.

"Yeah," says McCoy, "I got overridden, being just the doctor, and he stood there doing his psychic thing and then said," he imitates Spock's bloodless delivery, " _you are right, it is concussion and nothing to be concerned about_ , and then turned and walked off."

He had been here. Here for her. "Did he look at Kirk?" Uhura asks. She wishes she had been awake when Spock came. She tries to feel her mind, to detect any trace of a touch from Spock's mind, but of course there is nothing.

McCoy snorts. "For two seconds, just long enough for Kirk to give him attitude about taking him off duty," he says, and from the note in his voice Uhura knows that McCoy has drawn the same conclusion about Spock's visit that she has.

She flushes. Mortifying, that she caused Spock sufficient concern to have to break off from his duties to visit, and not great either that McCoy witnessed this.

"By the way," McCoy says, "I'm not sure I can make Friday night any more. Maybe some other time."

Uhura stares at him. This is worse. She has hurt him, he has worked out that there is something (is there?) between Uhura and Spock, and he is giving her the way out. "Leonard – I'm sorry –"

McCoy is checking her readings on the scanner and not looking at her. "Rest now," he tells her. "I'll get a nurse to come and check you over."

She watches him walk away, scanner in hand, back straight.

* * *

Uhura and Kirk are side by side in wheelchairs being brought off the Restorative. Kirk flirts with her on the way down the ramp. It is a reflex with him. Anything female, he simply cannot help himself. Uhura barely notices it anymore. She holds herself stiffly because of the rib, and looks among the waiting faces in the echoing hangar for Spock.

He is not there. Why would he be?

She feels a pang of homesickness then, but this is Starfleet academy, and still a humanitarian crisis, and a friendly face when feeling hurt and weak is a luxury she gave up when she joined. She presses her lips tightly together and concentrates on not letting the wheelchair's progress jolt her.

The nurses deliver her to her room, remove the wheelchair and tell her to rest and report for duty in two days' time. Then they leave. Garrick is not there – assigned to another rescue mission – and Uhura is alone.

Uhura orders in food and rests gingerly on the small couch, watching the news. The rescue mission is the only story and there is much footage of Starfleet ships under fire. She hopes the journalists' ships were carrying refugees as well as cameras.

She feels limp and delicate and not up to company. It is not ideal, then, to hear a buzz at her door. She rises and moves stiffly to the door. Presses the comm.

In the viewer she sees Spock, still and serene in his Captain's uniform, in the passage outside.

* * *

She opens the door. "Commander!"

"Cadet Uhura. I hope I have not disturbed your rest." His eyes roam over her, taking in the bruise on her head and her awkward stance as she tries to obey orders to breathe normally despite the rib.

"No. " She hesitates. The room is a disaster zone behind her. "Come in."

"Thank you." He enters and stands in the centre of the living area, taking in the piles of laundered clothes, the dinner dishes, the pictures and books, the drifts of personal _stuff_ strewn all over. Neither Garrick nor Uhura are naturally tidy, and efforts have to be made to keep the tiny apartment liveable. Those efforts have not been exerted lately. Uhura is thankful that at least the bedroom doors are closed. Spock, accustomed to his clinically tidy office, must be appalled.

"Can I get you a drink?" Uhura offers. It is weird to have Spock in her personal space. She cannot help but think of him standing outside her door – was it just two nights ago now? – and kissing her cheek.

"No. Thank you." He is grave and polite, as always. He looks tired, though. There are shadows at the corners of his eyes. Vulcans can go long periods without rest. It does not do them any good, however.

The only place to sit is the couch, so she gestures for him to sit, and perches herself on a stack of storage boxes opposite him. Her cracked rib squeals but she ignores it.

"What can I do for you" she asks after the silence between them has gone on longer than is comfortable.

Spock frowns. "I wanted to see you."

Nerves clutch her. "Is this about my performance on the ship today? I know I put myself and other cadets in danger but I was thinking quickly and didn't have time to –"

Spock lifts his hand, staying her words. "It is not about that. Although in fact, your action in sealing off the corridor saved the entire ship."

She gapes.

"That whole section of the _Churchill_ sheared away just as Kirk operated the manual override," Spock tells her. "All the medbays took flight, and it was a while before we established that the disused medbay six had succeeded in escaping too."

No one had told her that.

"We lost number four," says Uhura.

"That was through enemy action," says Spock. "Several patients and staff escaped. The majority."

Uhura remains silent.

"You acted correctly," says Spock. "Even if you had not escaped, you had taken steps to protect the greater number of your colleagues and those under their care."

It still does not feel like a win. She says nothing, however.

"That is not why I came to see you," Spock says. He is sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He leans towards her a little more. His face is earnest and again she is struck by his youth, which is in such contrast to his measured manner. His face gives nothing away, of course, but she knows him better now, and can detect nervousness in the slight urgency of his body language. "I came to be certain that you are all right."

Oh. A thrill of joy runs through her. "Thank you."

His eyes are directed at her face with glittering intensity. "You are pleased," he states.

"Yes. It's nice to know someone cares," she tells him, and even as she thinks that this is a foolish thing to say to a Vulcan, especially one who is your tutor and now your commanding officer, he reaches out his right hand and touches her left, the back of his knuckles against hers for a moment. Spock blinks at her, searching her face, his skin warm on hers, and she hears his voice in her mind saying, _Uhura_.

It sparkles behind her eyes and down int her belly, and is so surprising that she flinches away.

"I am sorry," Spock says, withdrawing his hand. "That was inappropriate."

"No," she says, holding her hand out towards his. "It just made me jump."

His eyebrows lift a little. He holds his hand out, palm up, index and middle fingers extended, the others curled in slightly.

She matches his gesture, her palm down, and takes his hand, like a handshake. She looks into his eyes.

_Uhura_ , again. It is not like hearing. She can feel the word, no, not just the word, the concept of her name, of herself, coming from him. Spock blinks slowly. His hand is warm and dry, like any man's. Uhura sits very still, breathing shallowly, the rib forgotten. Her own name is still shimmering inside her, and it is beautiful and precious.

She would smile at him to tell him that this is OK, is good, but a smile does not seem sufficient to express the strange wonder of this. And surely he can feel it anyway? She does not know how this works.

Spock's thumb curls suddenly around her hand and he holds her fingers tightly for a moment. _I am glad._

The heat that accompanies this is breathtaking – ripples of bright warmth and a sensation of tender closeness – like a hug, she thinks in amazement. It is marvellously intimate.

Spock loosens his grip on her hand – he is incredibly strong, she could not have freed herself – but Uhura squeezes her fingers around his until he returns the touch. This is too new and too good to stop so soon.

_Uhura_ , Spock sends again, as if in this contact she is all he can think of. He too seems amazed. And happy. His fingers are hot.

Oh this is good. But it is a little unequal. Uhura focuses on Spock's eyes and thinks that his construct of her, as Uhura, is not at all complete. For a start – _My given name is Nyota._

Everything blooms then as he absorbs the name and the significance attached to her sharing it. She sees and feels silver fire and hopes that however this feels for him it is as miraculous as he is making it for her. _Spock_ , she thinks, seeing him with her eyes but also her mind, his quickness, his brilliance, his humour and shy wit.

His lips part. It is working, then. She smiles. "Spock," she says out loud, and experiences a weird echo in her mind as he hears his name.

"Nyota," he whispers, and abruptly breaks contact.


	8. Acceptable parameters

Her mind is complex, tangles of emotion and experience, colours and textures winding around the central awareness which is her self, just as it was the first time his skin touched hers.

In the passage outside her room, Spock took a risk, imagining it a minor one, predicting that on such acquaintance he would be immune from any deep connection with her mind. But then he kissed her, and her mind was beside his, filled with his name as she felt his lips on her cheek, and he was astonished.

This, now, a deliberate touch, Uhura consenting, is doubly intense. She is focused on him and is answering him in her mind, quite on purpose. He is aware of himself as she perceives him. The impression is flattering. She admires him, his brain of course but also his ... what is that, so difficult to interpret across races and cultures... his... wit. He makes her laugh and she values that. Peculiar but pleasing. And she thinks his eyes are very attractive.

This gives him pause. He admires her too, and this naturally includes her physique: she has symmetry and grace. To single out a person's eyes, however, speaks of more than general appreciation. She is  _specific_. Spock realises, holding Uhura's hand, watching as her face ebbs and flows with expression, that these feelings are uniquely for him. And his eyes.

He admits that there are some facets of his own admiration which are specific to her: her cheekbones, carving their fine line between justifiable pride and defiance. Her slender wrists. Her eyes, in fact, yes, her eyes are aesthetically delightful.

He is barely touching her, mere whispers to her mind, but the connection is powerful. Held in reserve, other parts of his mind process ideas about how it would be if he and she became intimate, shared minds fully in the ultimate connection. It is an enticing notion, but not a productive one.

He wished to see her, to reassure himself that she was well. It was a selfish urge on his part, and now he has added to that selfishness by engaging in this unwise contact. But it is so pleasant, so gratifying to trust and share in this way. Except now he is concerned that - in his arrogant assumption that she would connect but lightly with him - she has read too much into the touch of his mind. She has interpreted it incorrectly, as an indicator of an association which goes beyond friendship. This must not be, they must remain mere friends, it would not be acceptable to become more involved that that -

Then she tells him her personal name, with her mind. For a moment he thinks he may faint, which would be embarrassing, but he gains control and allows the knowledge to sweep over and through him. He speaks her name aloud and becomes aware that desire is rising rapidly, bringing the urge to draw her to him and begin.

He breaks free of her touch and sits calming himself. He is in her quarters and she is injured and her interest is no justification for his behaviour.

"Spock," she says, omitting any honorific, "what's wrong?" Her eyes are anxious and even without her skin against his he can quite distiinctly feel that she has become tense.

"Nothing," he tells her.

"Why did you stop?" she asks, reaching for him again. He evades.

"You need rest," he says, which is true.

She has questions. He can see her puzzlement. This is understandable, but he is not ready to give answers.  _Yet_ , he realises, and almost sends himself back into the melee of longing as he wonders at that.

He stands. "I will leave you to recover."

She makes to rise but it is painful; in spite of his misgivings courtesy and pity compel Spock to offer his hand to help her up.

Uhura grips it and draws herself simultaneously upright and close to him so that her body is almost touching his and her face is tipped up toward him.

_She desires my kiss_ , Spock thinks, and closes off his mind, releasing her hand. He steps away from her, saying, "You must rest."

"Spock," she says.

He looks at her.

"Yes, Commander," she whispers.

"Goodnight," says Spock, and walks out.

It is not far to his quarters in the faculty block. He arrives there seemingly so quickly that he realises he has not noticed anything about his surroundings on the way.

He steps inside, goes directly to his bedroom and sinks to the floor. He pulls off his boots and sits in meditative position, but he is not meditating. He is thinking of Uhura's face, hurt and bewildered, as he rejected her, and feeling that hurt in his own chest, oppressing him.

He showed her his concern. He showed her that he values her highly. This was incorrect, he realises. She has misinterpreted his intentions. She is from Earth, and human, and his actions have now led to expectations. She expected him to kiss her (wanted him to kiss her) and Spock must not.

But he does not want to lose their association either. She has provided many pleasant hours of conversation and productive work. He is happy to share a close association with her. But –

There are so many parts to the  _but_  that it is overwhelming. He focuses on the obvious: she is his student and he must not take advantage of her.

(She made the move to kiss him. On both occasions. She does not appear to be the passive victim in this.)

He should not have shared with her. But it was so wonderful. In that connection, he longed for more. Much more.

But it was selfish.

But she was willing, more than willing.

But, but, but...

Calm, he tells himself. Do not allow these emotions to mask the facts of the situation. A clear head is required, for tomorrow brings many further duties.

It may be that he needs to have a conversation with Cadet Uhura about their association, to clarify the acceptable parameters. Yes. He will explain his mistake.

His latest mistake, involving Uhura. It strikes him that there are beginning to be many of these.

 


	9. Completely

The thoughts will not come today. Spock is fully rested, has meditated twice since rising, has delivered lessons which were meticulously prepared, and has eaten sufficiently to function at optimum level. Yet as he attempts the weekly assessment of student progress, his words disappear and he stops, over and again, staring at nothing instead of at his work.

The academy is gradually returning to its normal routine after the cadets' startling part in the evacuation of A109. Main Starfleet has taken over the rescue, and the clearance of hostile forces. Soon there will be trials and punishments. The long humanitarian mission has already begun. Repatriation of an entire planet's population, a task beyond the imagination of most organisations.

It is not the enormity of this challenge which intrudes on Spock's thoughts, however. It is, rather, a lack of clarity, as if an expected stimulant has failed to deliver its usual effect. He has observed Kirk and McCoy drooping over their morning coffee, complaining about the length of time it takes for the caffeine to permeate their systems. Most human activity revolves around the artificial spur of caffeine, it seems. Spock relies on no such pharmacological input, of course, but today he feels how Kirk looks after an injudiciously late night and no shot of espresso before first class.

"Injudiciously late," Kirk said when Spock made this comment as the two of them met in an elevator one morning. Kirk was shadow-eyed and barely shaven. He had a faint aroma of feminine cologne on him. The clues were plain: much alcohol, too little sleep, a lot of intimacy with a female. "That's priceless," Kirk said, laughing hoarsely.

Spock raised an eyebrow – which part was beyond price? The female company, presumably, as there were strict rules on solicitation. But the remark is hard to parse.

"I was out getting drunk," said Kirk. "A good time was had by all. And now I'm paying for it. –Commander," he added at the last moment.

"Unwise, when there is class to prepare for the following day," observed Spock.

"Completely worth it," Kirk maintained. "You should try it." He stopped and looked warily at Spock. "I'm sorry Commander," he said, "that was not a suitable –"

"I am not offended," Spock told him. "I am merely intrigued by your exhortation to sample an activity which by your own admission leads to inconvenience and discomfort."

Kirk laughed in relief. "It's just fun," he said, as if this was both description and justification. "And, well, not wanting to give away too many details, the company was very fine." He winked.

Spock stared at him and eventually Kirk gave up trying to elicit a return wink and leant against the elevator wall with his eyes closed for the rest of the journey.

Spock wonders, now, if Kirk's ensuing, albeit temporary, drop in grades was also classified as  _Completely worth it._ He suspects Kirk would still maintain that it was.

* * *

Spock completes his tasks and checks the time. It is the end of the official day for faculty. Any additional time they may wish to spend, for example in research, utilising the excellent facilities at Starfleet, are purely voluntary. But today Spock is not in the frame of mind for extra study.

He has an errand. He must seek out Cadet Uhura and explain her misunderstanding. He knows her routine, and at this hour she will be making her way either to her quarters, or to the athletics suite. It is unlikely that she will be in one of the many student bars around campus. She is too conscientious for that, with mid-term examinations approaching. Uhura will excel, Spock is certain. And he wishes to set right their association before the tests begin.

He has in his mind what he will say. An apology. A request that she listen carefully. A request that she try to understand that his concern was only for her physical wellbeing, and did not imply any level of interest beyond that which is completely appropriate ( _completely worth it!_ ) completely appropriate between a member of staff and his student. He suspects that she has misinterpreted his actions and wished to become more –

Spock swallows.

-It appeared to him that Uhura wished for a closer association than is advisable, and for a moment, in his surprise at her mind's agility, Spock shared with her more completely ( _completely worth it!_ ) completely than he intended. And he regrets this. Completely.

He stands and is about to leave is office when there is a chime at the door. "Enter," says Spock, and Uhura strides in.


	10. Burning knot

"Cadet Uhura. This is a happy coincidence. I was just about to come and see you."

Uhura stands rigidly in front of Spock's desk. He is standing too. "Commander. May I speak with you?"

"You are already doing so." She does not smile. "You may continue," Spock adds.

Uhura fixes her gaze on a point beyond Spock's left shoulder. "I wish to apologize unreservedly for my behaviour after I was injured and to make it clear that I would never insult you by seeking inappropriate attentions from you."

Her voice is low but clear. Her statement is perfectly comprehensible. Yet Spock stares as if she has uttered gibberish.

Uhura places her hand on the back of the nearest chair. She moves her gaze and looks Spock steadily in the eye as she repeats a Vulcan phrase, an old expression of courtesy which translates but awkwardly: "I intend the respect you show to me."

Spock inclines his head. Gestures for Uhura to sit, that they might talk, but she remains standing, and her attention is once again skimming past his face to the empty shelves behind. "I have only respect for you," he says, thinking that she has phrased her regret for their exchange far more competently than he could have done. He supposes humans have more frequent need to unpick this type of situation, and so possess inbuilt ways to do so.

And yet as he studies her face, he sees her eyelids flicker. She is holding her body still, and it requires effort - it shows in her stiffened fingers at her sides, which have a minor tremor. Her hair, today, is entirely swept up onto her head and pinned with many sharp looking pins and clasps - her throat is fully visible and Spock can watch her pulse. It is rapid.

Uhura is under stress.

His impulse is to express concern. His impulse  _is_  concern. Yet he remains still. She is controlling the tension extremely well, and that is commendable. Something guaranteed to test one's composure is a remark from another on how composed one seems.

"Thank you," Uhura says and Spock calculates that eight additional seconds passed between his statement and the expected time for her reply.

One touch on her hand would tell him all that she felt and whether he could alleviate the stress she feels. He wishes her to be well. As her tutor he has a measure of responsibility for her. As a member of a civilised society he is concerned for her continuing good health. It is logical to take the most efficient route to discover the cause of her distress in order the better to assist.

Spock does not move.

Uhura meets his gaze once more. Spock is startled by the intensity in her eyes. Her facial expression remains composed but her eyes appear to hold a great depth of emotion, like descending the final step only to discover that it was in fact the penultimate one - an extra drop awaits and the spine is jolted on impact with the ground.

Spock feels, again, the urge to reach across the desk and touch her arm, not even to expose her emotions, but merely to offer...consolation. She is suffering.

He could find out why, with one touch.

He does not need the touch. He knows the reason for her discomfort.

It is himself.

Spock makes a slow blink, the classic method for maintaining serenity.

Uhura finds him attractive, physically, as he does her. But she also finds him appealing intellectually. She likes his mind. She likes him, the essence of him.

His rejection has damaged her tranquillity. She believed he found her equally appealing and wanted to share their reciprocated feelings through touch.

Her belief is ... correct.

He does wish this. But it would be unwise to pursue this wish. She has demonstrated her grasp of that fact by coming here, slightly shaming him in fact by her earlier declaration of responsibility when it lay mostly on his side, and by remaining stoic despite her emotions. She is truly remarkable.

Spock admires her more, in this moment, than he has ever done.

Perhaps - It is possible that an association, a close association, between them would be beneficial rather than detrimental. It is possible that her emotional restraint, coupled with her latent ability to communicate with him psychically, would help him to maintain the necessary calm in outward appearance whilst simultaneously giving him an accepted, desired outlet for the turmoil of longing inside him.

It is possible.

Spock comprehends in an instant the ideas conveyed by the human expression, a bolt of lightning. A sudden and apparently complete understanding of a situation or feeling, experienced as if through external intervention.

To be close to Nyota Uhura is possible, is potentially beneficial, is very acceptable to her and desired by him. It is a logical outcome.

Relief floods Spock. Clarity returns to his mind. There is no dilemma. He, and she, may choose this direction, and know the benefits.

"Nyota," he says, and his voice sounds strange to him, low, a tremor running through it. The result of release from stress.

"I must not take up your time," she says. "I have to study. Goodbye Commander."

Her lips are pressed tightly together, nose and chin taut with distress, as she stumbles from his office.

Spock stands, motionless except for breath, and loss grows tight and fierce within him, a burning knot which smoulders and will not go out.

 


	11. Rejoice

The bar is surprisingly busy for a weeknight. Pre exam stress, she guesses. People pretending the worst is not about to happen.

She is pretending too, but in the opposite direction. Pretending that the worst has not already happened.

"Oh, get over yourself," says Garrick, on the stool beside Uhura's. "Think about the mid terms instead. That'll focus your mind all right."

"Yeah." Yes, she has not just had her heart broken by someone whose species does not place value on hearts. She is fine and everything is fine. She is just very stupid.

"Oh my god, there he is." Garrick clutches her arm and Uhura looks round wildly. Spock, here, surely not. She does not think she can stand it. She will be tempted to go over to him and smack him, or throw a drink over him, or fling herself at him and sob piteously. None of these options are helpful.

"Where?"

Garrick points and Uhura sees, not Spock, but McCoy.

"Oh." She sits passively as Garrick waves him over.

He is casual in sports shirt and leather bomber jacket. Drink in hand. "Good evening, ladies."

Garrick pats the empty seat beside her and McCoy sits, leaning forward on the bar to nod at Uhura. She gives him a minor grimace. This is not the moment to see him, or any man. This evening could only get worse if –

"Uhura! And Garrick! And how fine you are both looking tonight." Kirk slides onto the stool the other side of Uhura and gestures for drinks all round with the ease of a man who can speak bartender in seven languages and mime it in the rest. "A pleasure as always."

He is in full on jovial mode, combined now with brazen flirtatiousness, his least bearable incarnation, and now he is about to add alcohol to the mix. "Don't you have revision to do, Kirk?" Uhura asks.

"Nope. Don't you?"

She stares at him. How does he do it? Consistently good grades despite consistently showing up late, staying out late, and seeming determined to sleep with everything female at Starfleet Academy. He has some crazy level IQ, she knows, but even geniuses need to rest. Kirk never seems to. Permanently on, that's him. He is... exhausting. "Nope," she says in answer to his question. "I have learned everything I need to know." Plus some things she would rather not, such as, how to grovel to your tutor for making it abundantly obvious that you want his mouth on yours, alone in your apartment one night when you are concussed and he has spent all day flying a starship.

Kirk leans back and winks conspiratorially at McCoy. "Bones," he stage-whispers, nodding in Uhura's direction. "Man trouble."

Garrick reaches round Uhura and belts Kirk one. "Shut it, she's not in the mood."

"Are you?"

"I could be."

Oh God. Uhura jumps down off her chair and elbows Garrick to swap with her. As awkward as it is to sit beside McCoy she cannot stand Kirk's mock-predation tonight. Especially when, most of the time, it actually seems to work.

McCoy smiles at her and doesn't say anything, which is a blessing. Kirk and Garrick are now deep in conversation, mercifully, about shuttles. Which is the fastest, most dangerous, most likely to disintegrate on re-entry.

Uhura sips her drink and thinks she ought to go home. She pushes away the empty glass and is about to excuse herself when McCoy speaks.

"Sorry I was such a jerk about dinner the other day." He grimaces. "I was all bent out of shape."

"It's ok. It wasn't a great day for anyone."

The crisis is over. The cleanup has begun. But there is a planetful of homeless, hurting people.

McCoy says, "I just got this idea that there was something between you and - Spock. Commander Spock."

Kirk glances across, hearing the name. His sharp eyes scan Uhura's face.

Uhura drops her gaze. Her (empty) drink needs stirring, several times. "No," she says quietly. "There's nothing between us. -We're friends." She supposes.

"For a Vulcan, that is something," says McCoy but he is teasing and his tone has changed, lightened. "So... can I ask again? Would you forgive me?"

She gazes at him. He is rather beautiful. She likes his humour. And he is passionate in all he does, whether angry or funny or, she imagines, in love. There is no masking with him: emotions are on full display and that's just the way he is, daring anyone to have a problem with that.

"All right," she says, eyes still on the glass. "Dinner?"

"Yes," he says, and covers her hand on the glass with his own.

"Tomorrow night," she says. "Cosmo's?"

"Oh," he says. "Upmarket, huh?"

"You in formalwear," she says, looking up at last and smiling. "Since I'm doing the asking."

"That is a very fine idea," says McCoy, "so long as you're going to reciprocate."

Garrick turns her head to Uhura at that moment, and Uhura sees Kirk behind Garrick, staring, his eyes bright blue and curious, and Garrick's face, strangely vulnerable, and the moment is bizarre, and she wonders what it is about shuttles to cause it.

"See you tomorrow then," says Uhura, and shimmies off the stool to go home.

* * *

"You look beautiful tonight," he tells her as they stand outside Cosmo's after dinner. There has been no discussion, yet, of the next move. He wants to take her home, to bed, she can tell. She is thinking of it, too, something easy, passionate, straightforward.

He takes her hands, brings them to his lips, kisses her fingers.

The trouble is that he likes her a lot more than she likes him. He really likes her, whereas she is looking more for a friend with benefits.

He draws her close, his body touching hers. He is wearing spicy aftershave and his arms are strong around her waist, his hands on her shoulders. He looks good in the dinner jacket, for sure.

"Leonard..."

If she kisses him, lets him kiss her, there will be no turning back. Not without something getting broken. Omelettes and eggs, except she is not sure she wanted an omelette...

He bends and touches his lips to hers reverently, draws away to see that there is permission for more.

Uhura flinches. His kiss. Gentle, tentative, sweet. Perfect. Yes -

Except –

She cannot feel anything. It is physical, only. Of course. She looks at McCoy and he is so tender and lovely, but then as he kisses her again he is hard and urgent and she can feel his passion and maybe she will grow to love him -

-But -

* * *

Spock stands outside the faculty building opposite Cosmo's and watches Uhura accept McCoy's kiss. They are far away and he has no sense of their feelings, for which he is quite grateful. But although she hesitates, after a moment she softens and allows this man to kiss her mouth, his hand travelling from her shoulder blades down her back to rest on her bottom, as the kiss becomes more intense. Her hands are on his arms.

This is a positive step, Spock thinks. It indicates that there will be only a productive, working, useful association between himself and Cadet Uhura. She has recovered from her inclination towards Spock, and her misinterpretation of his sharing, and seeks sexual pleasure and, presumably, emotional connection elsewhere. This is good and he ought to rejoice for her.

He stands, not rejoicing, until Uhura breaks the kiss and gestures towards the cadet quarters. McCoy strokes her hair and nods, his arms around Uhura's waist, and she pulls away and walks independently beside him instead, and as they stroll away Spock's excellent hearing just catches McCoy's low, triumphant laugh.

* * *

**Author's note:**  There will be a short pause here while I go on holiday. More when I return! -Sef


	12. Born certain

Spock becomes aware of a presence in the lab behind some before any words are spoken.

He is attached to eyephones, and data streams across his vision, to be absorbed in memory even as slower-input audio enters his ears at a volume no human could detect. It is his preferred method of learning, especially, as now, language.

Spock does not remove the eyephones, merely tilts his head in query as the person behind him coughs to attract his attention.

"Commander Spock. A word?"

Kirk. Unmistakable twang plus cocksure assumption of compliance with his request. "How can I assist?" Spock detaches from the phones, sets them aside, looks up at Kirk.

"It is a personal matter, sir."

Kirk appears slightly hesitant. Spock stands, gestures for them to walk to the window. Spock stands observing the view, while Kirk perches on a lab desk. "I will assist if I can. What does this concern?"

"I would like your advice."

Spock raises one eyebrow. Kirk has never, in Spock's acquaintance with him, sought advice or guidance on any subject. He is someone born certain. Spock has envied this quality, on occasion: the lack of doubt, the confidence that one's own impulses rule supreme. Is Kirk truly requesting help, and with some area considered personal?

The two men look at each other. Kirk has his usual bold stare. Spock immediately understands two things: Kirk does not really require advice; and this is somehow to do with love.

"You may find it more productive to speak to one of your human tutors," Spock says, deflecting.

"I believe you will have the answer I'm looking for," says Kirk.

His personality is magnetic. "What is it?" Spock asks, while thinking that he does not really want to know any detail of Kirk's extremely wide-ranging love life.

"I have a friend," says Kirk.

A classic ploy. It is common in many cultures to utilise the supposed friend in order to convey potentially awkward news. "Go on," says Spock cautiously. "I understand."

Kirk nods. They are in agreement about this conversation. "My friend has a new girlfriend, says Kirk.

Spock maintains his bland gaze. Kirk and a new female. No shock.

"I'm worried about him," Kirk says, and Spock looks sharply at him. Is this an actual friend after all? Kirk goes on:"This girlfriend, she's – she's a very fine woman, you understand, but still – "looking warily at Spock, who of course gives no reaction at all – "she, uh, she doesn't like my friend the way he likes her."

This is puzzling. Has Kirk finally found a female who is not prepared to engage immediately in whatever intimate practices he prefers? Or... is this about his actual friend-? McCoy - and Uhura. Yes. Kirk is right to couch this information in theoretical terms. Spock would never discuss this openly. Yet he is curious about what Kirk is saying – which seems to involve merely mismatched levels of interest. "Why is this a problem? My understanding is that your culture allows numerous acceptable ways to appreciate another person."

"Yeah," says Kirk. "But it's not fair to lead someone on if you don't intend to actually –" He breaks off. "If you don't love them back," he says after a pause. "It's mean," he adds in further explanation, "to let someone think you care about them if you don't."

Is this about McCoy and Uhura... or Uhura and Spock? Suddenly Spock is unsure. "What would you have your friend do?" he asks.

"I don't know." Kirk shakes his head in frustration. "I don't want to break his heart. He's a great guy."

"Perhaps you should have this conversation with the female companion in question," says Spock.

"I'm a little afraid to. She's somewhat formidable." Kirk grins ruefully and Spock finds he is battling the urge to smile too. Formidable indeed.

He resets his face. "What, then, is your hope in talking to me?"

"I would like to know your opinion. Should I let my friend find out for himself that his new girl has no feelings for him? Should I tell him? I just don't know."

Spock ponders. "On what basis do you make the accusation of this person's lack of ... connection... with your friend? Your friend's companion may simply choose not to display her affections in public. Some people prefer to keep such matters private." Spock, for example.

"Hmn."

"Your friend has been indiscreet about some private interaction," surmises Spock. He imagines it, McCoy and Kirk in some bar, or their apartment, sharing confidences about females. Or, a worse idea: Kirk, in the apartment, overhearing McCoy and Uhura -

Spock shuts down that mental image.

Kirk says, "It's obvious. I saw how they got together. Uh- The girl, I mean, doesn't feel anything for my friend. She's interested in someone else."

Time seems to slow and allow Spock to absorb the idea one piece at a time: Uhura, definitely not in any emotional connection with McCoy; Uhura not engaging (an assumption) – in physical relations with him because of this; Uhura's reason being her interest in another; the other being – (assumption- calculated probability – hope) Spock?

Kirk is watching him with those unusual blue eyes. Blue is a colour often associated with low temperatures and clinical detachment, yet Kirk's eyes show warmth at all times. He is never cold, whether angry, happy or sad. And now that Kirk has delivered his message, Spock wonders about Kirk's motivation. To help McCoy? To help... Spock? (It is possible.) Or both?

It seems like Kirk, to notice an aberrant situation and try to fix it.

Kirk is assessing Spock now, to see if his plan has worked. His eyes are flickering, trying to read Spock's still, serene face.

"If this person has an interest in someone other than your friend," says Spock carefully," why has this interest not been pursued?"

Kirk's eyes brighten. Spock has asked the right question. "Well," he says, "that's pretty easy. 'Course, I'm only going by how she looked that night. But I think it's fair to say - He broke her heart."

He slides off the desk. "Well, I better go. Thanks, Commander, it's been good to get that off my chest. I'm sure it will work out."

"Wait." Spock holds up his hand. "Your friend. Will he suffer more, knowing? Knowledge is not always a blessing. You ought to consider the least cruel path."

Kirk stops on his way to the door. This, clearly, had not occurred to him. He saw only truth and openness. Spock's more subtle mind has considered the possibility of continued deception. Anathema to Kirk. There is no dishonesty in him. It is said that Vulcans cannot tell a lie – not true – but it seems to Spock that some humans are even less physically able to withstand untruths.

He likes Kirk, he realises. Kirk is impulsive and too certain of his own central place in the universe ever to be officer material, but despite these flaws Spock is drawn to him. Kirk is essentially human, even as Uhura is, and Spock, he is discovering, cannot resist.

"I think it would be better for my friend if it ended now," Kirk says after a pause.

"Then you should tell your friend. But perhaps you should not tell him everything you suspect. Perhaps it would be better to plant a seed of doubt in his mind and allow him to pursue it as he will. Your friend is an adult. He may choose to continue his association, as may his companion. It is their decision to make."

Kirk says, "Can Vulcans feel compassion?"

Spock stares. "Vulcans are capable of a complete range of emotions. However these are controlled and managed so as not to overrule logical action. You know this already from your studies."

Kirk says softly, "I guess I'm just surprised. You're being generous towards my friend. And his girl." He smiles. "That's ... good."

He claps Spock familiarly on the shoulder in farewell, and Spock is not offended. A burst of geniality strikes him through the contact and he stares at Kirk's retreating figure, considering their conversation, and what it means, again, to be caught between two worlds.

 


	13. Endlessly swirling waters

The Diversity Earth summit in Lima will be perfect. Uhura has organised accommodation - a local hostel, two bedrooms, nothing too presumptive - away from the conference centre, ensuring a romantic little walk for them every morning, and then it will be one hundred percent work, just right: she will be able to concentrate on subjects she is passionate about, all day every day, and of course he lives for the work –

That is, Leonard lives for the work.

Hmmn.

The summit is a month or so away. The 5 Year Mission selection tests – the first round of a long process – are first. Practically everyone is involved in them. Barring people with family or other commitments which preclude such a long absence, almost every member of Starfleet wants in on the action. These initial selection tests, at the Academy, are to thin out applicants based on psychological suitability. Ultimately, technical skills can be learned. But if you are likely to go stir crazy after the first six months without fleet contact, then all the training in the world won't make you a credit to the mission.

The 5YM tests are all anyone on campus can talk about. Almost.

"Uhura. –I feel weird calling you by your surname."

"I can call you McCoy if it helps."

They are stretched out on McCoy's small couch in the apartment he shares with Kirk. He has poured them each a drink and then pulled her in for a kiss before she can take the first sip. And now this. He is insistent: "No. I mean, what about your first name?"

She sighs. "I reserve the use of my first name for my family. You know that."

"OK... But... close friends. Boyfriends."

"My husband," she says. "He would obviously know my name."

"Ok. What, after the wedding? Or before?"

"Before, of course." She can see where this is leading.

"How long before? The night before? When you meet his parents? Fifth date?"

This is McCoy and Uhura's third date, dinner at his place. Kirk has generously offered to spend the evening with two of his close (female) friends.

Uhura was snuggling a little with him. Now she sighs. "When the moment is right," she says.

She knows she is in the wrong about all of this. Yet he is so sweet and comforting. His kisses are wonderfully distracting. He has not once tried, beyond those incredible kisses, to get her into bed. He is letting her lead.

"He's a perfect gentleman," she told Garrick after the first date. "Most guys would have been ripping my clothes off but he just kept kissing me, holding my hand, letting me make the move if I wanted to. I've never met anyone so sweet."

"Then why are you back here yapping about it?" demanded Garrick with even more sourness than usual.

"I didn't want to sleep with him. Tonight," Uhura said.

"Oh." Garrick frowned at her and Uhura shrugged and went to bed.

This pattern was followed after the second date and now Uhura knows she will have another conversation with Garrick about it tonight.

She sighs again.

"Forget it," says McCoy, wrapping his arms around her more tightly. "It doesn't matter."

But it does. They are horizontal on the couch after dinner and basically this is the moment when she should slide her hand down his back to his neat waist, onto his belt, and run her fingers around to find the buckle, get into that and undo. It's an old-fashioned leather belt, which would probably take a little fiddling, and she would probably giggle and he would have to help her, at the same time pressing his lips to her collarbone, then as the belt gives way he would reach round and unfasten her soft jersey dress and slip his agile hands inside, against her skin...

She is sure he is a considerate lover. He has had his heart broken, crushed into tiny pieces, swept up and stamped on a little more, and love's castaways are always a little more reverent, a little more grateful, than the ones with only stories of easy conquest. Yet his sorry past is another, very good reason why she should stop now, and not add another coating of cynicism to his already multi-layered defences.

She stops, her hands at his ribs, and says, "Leonard. I'm so sorry."

And he freezes, understands, and they sit up, and after a few minutes sitting saying nothing, he picks up the glasses and hands one to her. They sit at either end of the couch, she curled, he stretched out with his legs on the coffee table, and eventually he says, "You love him, don't you," in a completely flat tone.

Uhura looks into her wine, sees a bright rim of blackberry around the well of purplish black, and the lights of McCoy's apartment reflected in two streaks straight down into the dark.

"It doesn't matter what one person thinks," she says, "if the other person can't feel the same way."

"No kidding," says McCoy. His voice is bitter.

They clink glasses sadly. Uhura blinks away tears. She does not deserve McCoy's sympathy. None of this is his fault.

"Uhura. I have to know. Am I right, is it him?"

He does not need to say the name. "Don't hate him," she pleads. "He hasn't done anything. There is nothing between us. Nothing, it is all in my head."

McCoy rubs his free hand over his forehead. "Funny. Jim said he wanted to talk to me tonight, and I put him off. I guess I know now what he was going to try to tell me. "

Uhura's eyes widen. "Kirk?"

"Yeah. He knows. He always knows, this kind of stuff. He guessed right away about you and... him." McCoy sighs. "I don't hate him," he adds. "Ok. Maybe a little. How can he even look at you and do nothing? It's just proof that he really is from another planet."

She stares at him and now tears are falling. McCoy is correct, and feeble protestations about Spock's proportion of humanity will not change anything.

* * *

Uhura is not sure whether to do this face to face. She has waited and waited and now the Earth Diversity Summit is only a week away, and still she has not asked if Spock will take her other ticket and come with her.

Since the end of their translation project she has not seen Spock as frequently. He is working on a project with one of her classmates, a young man from one of the near Earth colonies, serious and rather boring, yet quietly brilliant. Uhura has an irrational dislike of this student and has to battle to be civil when he mentions evenings spent at Commander Spock's private quarters, reviewing accounts of ancient battles.

Uhura has never been invited to Spock's home.

She would like to think that this was because of propriety – she is a female – or temptation – same thing - but harbours a sad suspicion that Spock never found her sufficiently interesting or clever to wish to continue their discussions in his own time.

In any case, she decides, now, to ask Spock to the summit directly, instead of by message.

She ditches a physical training session and goes to find him. It is a weekend – as much as the Academy acknowledges such things – and so hr is not in his office. She checks the language labs but he is not there either. Reluctantly she looks up his home address. She could wait to ask him, until their next class, but that would leave only a few days before departure and he might have another engagement doing something else... with someone else.

She presses the doorbell and hears its soft chime.

The door opens and Spock is there, in his black not-uniform which is almost the same as his uniform, his sleeves neatly rolled up showing his pale arms, fine dark hair running from wrist to elbow. "Cadet Uhura," he says in his mild way.

"Commander," she replies. "I have a request. I'm sorry to bother you at home –"

"What is your request?" he asks.

He has not invited her inside.

She takes a deep breath. She has been through so many permutations of this question that she is rather afraid the wrong version will come out. She concentrates, makes it as simple and direct as she can. "I have two tickets for the Earth Diversity summit in Lima next week. Would you like the second ticket?"

Spock tilts his head. "The conference exploring how Earth's cultures, diversity and diaspora are applicable to the study of non Earth races?" She nods. "An Earth-centric event. Yet you believe this would be relevant to me?"

He is spiky and defensive. She can see it in his slightly narrowed eyes, hear it in his sharp sentences. He is not pleased to see her.

"You have made Earth your home," she tells him.

"Do I therefore lack knowledge of my home, that you would suggest such an event?"

"I think you would find it interesting -"

He gives her a look which stops her dead. "Please do not patronize me. I am able to detect when a falsehood is spoken."

"I - what?"

"You initially purchased the tickets for someone else."

"What?" Now she is truly floundering.

"Tickets for the summit have been sold out for three weeks. Therefore you bought these some time ago. Yet you have only approached me to invite me now. Therefore I deduce that you bought them with some other person in mind, and for reasons of your own, have chosen instead to invite me."

He pauses. "I do not wish to take the place of someone else."

"I - "

"You had someone else in mind," repeats Spock, and his eyes are hard, his face a smooth mask.

He's furious, Uhura realises. Furious and offended and ... hurt. Even as she has been hurt by their weeks of separation.

"Commander," she says. "May I be completely honest with you?"

Spock's eyes flare. "I expect nothing less," he says coldly.

"When I bought the tickets I had you in mind. It was myself, and some other person, I was deceiving."

She stops there. She must not ramble on, add emotional excuses which will muddy the already murky, endlessly swirling waters of their relationship.

"You intended to go with me." Spock's mouth is set. He does not yet accept her words.

She hesitates. She must not lie. "I intended to go with someone else," she tells him, looking steadily into his eyes. "But when I imagined being at the summit, it was with you."

Spock frowns.

Does he understand how such a self deception is possible?

"These matters should not be discussed in public," says Spock . He steps back and gestures Uhura into his apartment.

She moves forward, and the door closes behind her.

The apartment is... bare. White throughout, a standard kitchen unit, a window. A mat on the floor. A door to another room. The bathroom? But where does he sleep?

"I require little," says Spock drily, observing her stare.

She blushes. Recalls her purpose in coming here. "Will you come to the summit?"

"I will consider it," says Spock. "I admit." He stops.

Uhura is horrified. Spock, hesitant. This cannot be. Spock is certain and knowing, sure at all times. How has she caused him such confusion as to become awkward? A wave of guilt passes through her, leaving a tremor in its wake.

Spock is watching her with his customary close attention. Behind him on the kitchen counter are bowls of fresh-cut vegetables. She interrupted him preparing a meal. Hence the sleeves, his exposed forearms.

Uhura opens her lips to speak but Spock gets there first.

"I am puzzled by your offer." He says it softly, his anger gone or hidden. "I have no surety that you will not change your mind. Or that you are not even now deceiving yourself, as you put it."

Uhura longs to reach out as she would to anybody else, to pat his arm and offer reassurance. But with him, such a contact is more complicated. She dare not risk it. She can only look, and speak. "Commander. Spock. I am sure." She puts as much depth of certainty into her voice as she can. Even if it is only to restore their friendship, she must win him back. She cannot be without him, he is too precious to her, and she looks this value at him as best she can, and hopes that a man who can control his emotions so precisely can accurately identify what it is she is trying to convey.

"Will you eat with me," he says then.

She shakes her head slowly. "I have intruded," she says.

"Honesty," says Spock with a sharp look.

She blinks. He is right. Of course. "I don't think I could eat anything right now," she confesses. "I was so worked up about coming here."

She sees it happen. His eyes change, the lashes flutter and he is himself again, no anger or distance, just Spock, the man she knows, the man she has missed.

His look, now, is amused. "I recommend meditation," he says. "I find it helps greatly with digestion. And self knowledge."

He walks her the short distance to the door. "I wish you a productive and beneficial day," he says, speaking low, inclining towards her.

"Enjoy your meal," she says, stepping out into the hall.

"Enjoyment is not required for adequate nutrition," he says, and smiles at her, and shuts the door.


	14. Reputation

**Author's note:**  the idea for this somewhat frivolous scene came to me and I could not resist. So here it is.

* * *

"Would a five year mission have a bar?" Garrick wonders as they gather under the beach awning at the end of a long day of psych tests. The Academy took them to the big dunes by the ocean in Morocco and essentially abandoned them, in small teams plus their observation cameras, with tasks to complete. This was after a morning of deskbound tests.

At least now, early evening, there is the opportunity to unwind on the beach. Keener applicants are swimming. Applicants who have had quite enough of being tested are in the bar. This is a large open space under coloured awnings, open to the breeze, sand underfoot and the sounds of the ocean nearby.

"If they want me to sign up, it better have a bar," growls McCoy.

"Alcohol would need to be rationed," muses Uhura.

"Or they would have a distillery on board," says Kirk as Spock appears and after a brief look around, sits at their table, beside Kirk. Spock is an applicant too. He was on Uhura's team briefly this afternoon. It went OK, and now here he is.

Kirk lifts his hand, twinkles at the bar maid – a local girl wearing a bikini and bright printed sarong – and five drinks appear.

"Cheers," says Kirk. Spock lifts his glass but does not sip. "If it's going to be wasted on your metabolism I'll have yours too," Kirk tells him.

"You are welcome to it," says Spock. "I fear impalement from the decorations alone." He flicks the cocktail umbrellas.

Kirk chuckles, gestures again to the barmaid.

As Uhura – designated linguist of their little group - explains in local dialect the need for an additional, non alcoholic drink, everyone notices that the barmaid is staring at Spock.

The girl goes away, comes back with a drink and a friend. They both stare, smile, bat their eyelashes. The friend's bikini is even smaller.

Kirk tries to catch their attention but cannot. They are transfixed by Spock. After some dramatic wistful sighing, the barmaid holds up her phone to swap numbers with Spock.

Spock looks at Uhura.

"Thank you, but no," she translates for the two girls. "Your offer is not required."

The girls chatter to Uhura about how handsome he is, how alien, how formal, how beddable.

Kirk stares, catching some of this. McCoy scowls into his drink and Garrick rolls her eyes. Uhura translates a little of it for Spock's benefit.

"Eh Spock, you've pulled," says Garrick as the girls finally depart.

"Yeah, how is that possible?" Kirk is now into Spock's drink, having finished his own.

"What, first time you're not the eye candy of choice, Kirk?" teases Uhura.

He shrugs. "Yeah. I guess."

"Your arrogance must be part of your charm," says McCoy, batting Kirk on the arm.

"This happens frequently," volunteers Spock then, and they all turn and stare open mouthed at him. "I have observed that I am considered attractive by many human women. They apparently find me an intriguing challenge."

Kirk is goggling.

Uhura starts blushing and Garrick cackles at her. "Shut up," Uhura hisses.

"Well," says Kirk, "you're quite the dark horse when it comes to the ladies, huh Commander." He seems impressed rather than put out. He claps Spock on the shoulder. "So, a string of secret conquests around the Academy?"

Kirk is never troubled by matters such as rank. Or privacy. Uhura seethes.

Spock quirks an eyebrow. "My reputation is no threat to yours, Kirk. The attraction is not mutual."

This time everyone glances at Uhura.

"I speak in general terms," says Spock. "I intend no comment on the females present." He nods to Uhura, then Garrick. Garrick is wide-eyed. She has never had the benefit of a Spock gaze-and-almost-smile before, and Uhura is gratified to see that she is not immune. She gives Garrick a glance of her own:  _See? Now you get it. He's, well, he's hot. And hands off._

"I don't remember a question about fraternisation in the test," says McCoy, "so I guess on the ship anything goes." He lifts his glass. "Here's to the five year mission."

Uhura winces a little at McCoy's attempt at sanguinity. She hides the flinch, but not quickly enough that Spock misses it. He is so fast to notice anything which upsets the tranquil flow of existence. "The five year mission," Uhura repeats.

They all toast, and afterwards Uhura sees Kirk looking at Spock with a new, curious respect.

* * *

"Do not be concerned for Dr McCoy," murmurs Spock as he and Uhura prepare to leave. "I believe he has formed a new association."

Uhura follows his gaze. McCoy is sitting beside Garrick, gesturing with his drink, arguing with Kirk, pointing a finger at him. Yet under the table, Garrick's hand is on McCoy's knee.

Uhura smiles. "Good."

"I will see you on the transport tomorrow," Spock says to Uhura, and her heart lifts, and she gapes at him.

"You're coming?" She has to calm her voice. The others are nearby, and the trip to the Earth summit is kind of a secret.

"It would be wasteful to decline. And I believe it will fulfil many points of enquiry." He inclines his head, looks upwards at her.

Now what does  _that_  mean?

Is he ... flirting?

"It's a full schedule," she says slowly. Here in the twilight, the dune grasses rustling in the wind, waves breaking onto the sand nearby, sight and sound are muffled and Spock, standing at the bleached wooden gate which leads out of the bar, is just a man, a slim young man in dark clothes, letting her know in his serious way that he will be going to Lima with her, to a conference, to study.

"Yes. There will be little time for extra-curricular pursuits." Spock's voice is light and melodic.

She peers at him. He  _is_  flirting. Isn't he? "Little time, yes. Not none."

"Exactly," he says, holding open the gate for her. "Not none."

And so they depart.


	15. Fascinating abandon

Uhura’s bag is packed. A small bag: she needs only uniform and sleepwear. There are no formal occasions attached to the Summit, and what free time the delegates have is their own. At the last moment she added a long white sundress: she packed at the Academy, before she knew Spock was coming, and imagined three lonely but tranquil evenings on a balcony somewhere soaking up some late sunshine.

Spock is on the platform at the transport station, in uniform, holding his own neat case. He bids her good morning and they board together. Spock nods at the car attendant and they are waved forward, walking through row and rows of Economy to the very front of the car where there are two free seats. Uhura straps in, although this is more of a formality on this civilian transport, and realises she has never sat at the very front before. The windows wrap around to either side and overhead, giving a massive view of the open desert. They will travel overland initially and strike out across the Atlantic, south of the Equator. After lunch there will be stunning views of the Amazon.

She communicates this to Spock, who merely nods. He sits calmly in his seat, also belted in, his eyes moving constantly as the transport pulls away and gathers speed.

And so they travel together, mostly in silence except when one of them sees something remarkable, and then they peer out of the window and marvel as they pass. Uhura buys a hot sandwich from the steward, but Spock has brought his own lunch, soup in a flask, and they eat. Spock looks at her often, at least as often as he looks out of the window, and when he is definitely watching the view, Uhura watches him.

She has missed him, working with him and just hanging out with him as they used to, having lunch together, crossing paths at the gym or en route to class. As the miles disintegrate behind them, she feels their old ease settling over them again.

They reach Lima in the late afternoon, and Uhura smiles excitedly at Spock – new city, conference, two days of fascinating events – and he blinks at her, his mouth twitching ever so slightly, and she knows that everything is all right between them.

The accommodation is a local hostel – cheaper than the plush conference centre which is a few streets away. But at the front desk, there is a problem.

“I asked for a two person suite,” Uhura says.

The man behind the desk shrugs. “This is what we got. If you don’t want it I can fill it immediately. The town is full. The conference.”

“We’ll take it,” says Spock. He turns to Uhura. “This is merely an inconvenience,” he reassures her. “We will manage.”

“Yes,” she says after a thought. “Starfleet is multi-gendered. We eat, sleep, train, wash together. This is no different.”

“I imagine we will be able to devise a rota for use of the bathroom,” says Spock archly, and she laughs.

The room is large and pleasant, a glazed tiled floor in black and white, a wide balcony onto the street, a tiny bathroom with fittings from the previous century, and a bed covered in a bright red, blue and green coverlet and draped with nets. No sofa.

“You will have the bed,” says Spock. “I can rest perfectly well on the floor. And since I may wish to meditate in the night, it make sense, so as not  to disturb you, were you to take the floor.”

“Spock,” says Uhura, “the floor is hard as rock. And although you and I are tutor and pupil, we know each other a little better than that.” She holds his gaze until he nods. “I trust you completely,” she says, “and I hope you know that I respect you. We can share the bed. There will be no-”  She searches for the right word. _Danger_ , is in her mind, but that sounds quite enticing to her. _Nonsense_ , perhaps, but she cannot regard the idea of intimacy with Spock as anything but serious. “There will be nothing inappropriate,” she says. “I promise.”

Spock looks wary “And you are sure there are no external objections.”

She is puzzled.

“A boyfriend,” clarifies Spock. The word is strange in his voice.

“No,” she says very firmly. He knows about McCoy, after all, that it is over. Can he really think she might have acquired someone else since then? “There are no objections. Unless you object.”

“I do not object.”

“Right then. That’s settled.” She is over-egging this, she knows, but can't seem to stop.

Spock is watching her, eyes flickering. She sees his gaze move to her eyes, forehead, mouth, eyes again. Assessing her. “There is no conflict,” he says softly. “There is only respect. We can do this, if each agrees.”

“Yes. Well, we do.”

“Then there is no need for agitation,” he says in the same gentle way.

He is right. She feels defensive and guilty. He is as serene as ever. She wishes she could explain, apologise but neither of these will help the situation. “Right then,” she says. “Dinner.”

 

* * *

 

The Summit has set up a Diversity dining centre for the use of the delegates. It is a huge tented space within the conference campus, subdivided with partitions into smaller rooms. Summit staff guide the delegates into this room or that, seemingly at random. A tremendous noise greets them as Uhura and Spock step into the tent: chatter in a thousand languages. Uhura feels her heart rate pick up. This babble is Earth, is her species, is home.

Spock guides her in by the elbow without touching her, as they are led to their designated room. Yet once they are inside, there are cushions on the floor and tables no more than eight inches high spread with food, and everyone must sit bunched up. Uhura sits on a long bolster cushion, thigh to thigh with Spock in front of a table of Himalayan delicacies, with a throng of others pressing in all around, eager to sample culinary diversity.

 

She can feel how warm Spock is but nothing else. He has closed his mind, she realises. He can do that. This is lucky, because right now in public she does not think she can manage sexual tension alongside cultural sensitivity plus rank and student-tutor considerations. He must be able to read her, though. She deliberately turns her attention to the food.

 

Spock is animated. He asks many questions. He enjoys the yak as sole provider of nutrition through the harsh months of scarcity: a family member who also offers sustenance as milk, cheese, butter, meat, skin, fur... all parts used if necessary, but with reverence for the beast. It chimes with his vegetarian values: this is not carnivorousness for its own sake, but as the logical result of necessity and efficiency. "Fascinating," he says several times. Uhura smiles and accepts yak tea from delegates on her other side.

 

Uhura watches Spock eat. His long fingers. His mouth, closing neatly over food. He does not miss. She is a little more freestyle, herself -  a pile of yak meat on a plate begs to be slurped up without cutlery, and greasy fingers need licking. Yak is fatty and full of gorgeous juices, and she imagines herself at home with Mama's goat stew, broth running off her chin as her cousins squabble over who will get the tender ears. The Himalayan hosts lick their fingers unashamedly and, smiling back at them, Uhura does too.  She caches Spock, openly staring, lips parted, pupils huge.

 

_Oh really_ , she thinks, a little high on yak fat: _I try to be academic, removed, to have you love me for my mind, and yet I suck a juicy rib and you start undressing me with your big brown eyes?_

Perhaps the 'tea' being passed around in a hand carved wooden bowl, is slightly alcoholic, because she raises her eyebrows boldly at Spock - as she would at anyone, catching them gawping like this - and takes a big, purposeful bite of a slow roasted daikon, closing her lips over it firmly, bringing her finger up to wipe away any lingering juices.

 

Spock's eyes track her movements.  And although she meant to challenge him, unsettle him, even , if she is honest, turn him on a little, (he is male, he is aware of attraction, he is sensual, she just knows it) - even so, her actions are having the opposite effect. His eyes on her feel not as if he is undressing her. No - it has gone way past that: he is undressing her mind, finding her naughty thoughts and turning them over, considering them, noting them in a storage area labelled _My Student's Advances Are Increasingly Unsubtle._ He is deducing her wants in seeing her suck the flesh from the prong of a rib bone, or apply her lips to the rim of the communal tea bowl.

 

It is she who blushes. Of course he sees it. This only makes her hotter. He gives no sign of anything other than mild curiosity. -Except for those giant pupils.

 

This one betrayal, this one sign his mind cannot tamp down, give her a surge of hope.  She likes him a ridiculous amount. He is her favourite way to spend time and this new signal adds a dimension which makes her light-headed with want and happiness.

 

Spock, beside her, touches her elbow - sleeve, inner tunic, nowhere near skin. "Are you well?" he asks.

 

"Yes," she says. If they were alone she would try to kiss him - again.

 

"You eat with fascinating abandon," he says.

 

She waits. There is a spot of grease on her chin, she can feel it. She dares him in her mind to wipe it off with his thumb.

 

He passes her a paper napkin. "Your feasting has left an impression," he says ambiguously. She dabs. "Yes," he says.

 

They rise. As they leave the Summit campus, Uhura hears a familiar cadence and turns, thinking, _Garrick?_ \- but the voice was a man's. A blonde, slight man in Starfleet uniform like their own, with the Engineers' insignia, is leaving with a local girl. He is draped in a wreath of white flowers. He bumps them as they pass, and apologises.

 

"Are you Scottish?" Uhura asks him, perhaps a little directly, because of the yak tea.

 

"Och aye," he replies. "Can you not tell?"

 

"Which part of Scotland?" she asks.  The vowel sounds are all over the place.

 

"Och," he replies again, "who knows?" And off he goes with the girl.

 

Uhura laughs and walks down into the city to their hostel, with Spock at her side.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

She disrobes in the bathroom, and emerges in T shirt and shorts. Spock is in a loose white kaftan style tunic, with a belt. He looks ready to perform martial arts, rather than sleep. Does he do battle with emotions in his dreams?

She climbs into bed and sits with the covers drawn over her knees. “I might read a while,” she says, but her PADD is across the other side of the room.

“I will rest,” says Spock, and stretches out face up beside her, eyes closed.

After a while Uhura lies down, and draws the covers over him too.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

This might be more difficult than she thought. The light from the window is white from the streetlamps  mingled with summer twilight, even at this late hour. Spock’s face is smoothed and sculpted by the lilac glow. She is so close to him and he is so... beautiful.

“Physical proximity is not an indicator of mental compatibility,” says Spock. He opens his eyes.

“Impulse does not justify action,” replies Uhura at once. She and he have played this game many times. Statement follows statement until the situation is completely described. It is like inventing proverbs.

Spock closes his eyes. “Exactly,” he says, and smiles.  Perhaps this is the end of the game. He intends to sleep. “Rest well, Nyota,” he says softly, and with these words robs her of all sleep for the next hour and a half.

 

* * *

 

 

He can feel her dreams. _Home_ and _safety_ and _family_ are in the emotions radiating from her. Without contact the images are fuzzy, but she feels strongly enough that he can detect it, this close to her.

She rolls towards him and he dodges. Skin to skin contact, far too dangerous. This was not, in fact, a sensible idea. How will he avoid contact when he too is asleep? He considers remaining wakeful throughout the night, but this would be foolish as he wishes to be able to concentrate tomorrow. No: he ought to decamp to the floor and sleep there. It is quite adequate.

He does not move.

Uhura says, "Spock," quite clearly in her sleep, and smiles. _Closeness_ and _longing_ are in her swirl of emotions.

Her physical appeal has travelled far beyond aesthetic pleasure and into captivation. Relaxed and unguarded in sleep, her beauty breaks free of its usual hauteur and rests in the curl of her lashes, her parted lips, the soft curve of her cheek. Beneath the covers her hip rises and leads down to her long bare legs.

How has it arrived at this? His admiration for her is intense.

He could wake her with one touch, speaking her name in his mind. They could agree, now, that they share this attraction, and he could kiss her as he saw her kiss McCoy, and she would share his pleasure and he hers.

 

But he is not certain. He has doubts. He thinks she does not like one-way transactions: he giving, she receiving. Her response to psychic touch has been to initiate her own, with remarkable success. This aspect impresses him, and in light of new possibilities, intimidates him somewhat. His experience of close association with Vulcan women has been limited. With Earth women it is nil.

 

There is, of course, T’Pring, but in a very fundamental way, she does not count. Neither of them chose the association, and as they grew old enough to grasp what was known as Spock’s handicap, each did their best to remain distant. Spock has long known that his betrothed wishes to end their connection, and this gives him pain because without it he has little chance, now, of Vulcan children, of beginning to right the genetic wrong which is himself.  Logic says the betrothal should continue, and while T’Pring is resentful, she accepts this logic. Spock asks himself if Uhura would accept a situation which renders both parties unhappy, and of course she would not. She, and most humans, would seek an alternative situation.

 

Spock can imagine T’Pring accepting his embrace as a result of logic. And naturally he and she are bonded together. Mating would occur, eventually it would be successful and there would be a child. The child would be raised a Vulcan while Spock is in Starfleet. There would be little contact and no acknowledgement of the child’s one-quarter Earth heritage. This makes Spock sad despite repeated recourse to logic. He himself is illogical and he suspects this may never be resolved.

 

Uhura’s contact is not passive. It is not duty. It is choice. She seeks him out and it is clear to Spock that intimacy is the likely outcome. It seems implausible that during intimacy Uhura would merely receive. And so how would things proceed? He cannot predict. He has no data.

 

It is not a productive use of time to speculate about an event which may not occur. And yet Spock has a recurring vision of Uhura, in which during the act itself, she breaks free of his arms and says, _you’re doing it wrong_ (leading to terror, humiliation, hurt) and then she says _let me._ And then what? He does not know.

 

He lies still, ignoring inclination, until sleep comes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Each dreams of the other, dreams which become vivid and warm; each hears their name in the other’s voice, is wrapped in tender closeness, hears mind-murmurs of contentment and peace._

* * *

 

Spock is woken by his name, melodic in her voice, in his mind. Instantly he comprehends what has occurred. They have become entangled in the night. His face is in her hair, hers against his neck. Her leg has slipped between his and her arms are around his waist.  His arms are around her, holding her close. And he has been thinking of her, even as she is still dreaming of him.

He unwinds himself from her embrace and lies straight, still, on the very edge of the bed. She stirs, rolls away.

He is horrified that she might have woken first and discovered him apparently molesting her, mind and body, after they promised each other distance and respect. An accident, yes, but one which would be hard to repair.

Set loose by sleep, his emotions have run free and he has personal excitement again. He needs to move. Starfleet gender-blindness aside, bed sharing between young, vigorous males and females is clearly ill advised. Does Uhura dream lucidly? Was she conscious of his involuntary state? _Forgive me,_ he thinks

“What for?” she asks, opening her eyes.

 Then she stares round wildly, confused. “Spock. Morning.” She sits up. “I slept well,” she says. “Did you?”

“Yes,” says Spock, and it is true.

She smiles. “I knew this would be OK.”

“Nevertheless,” says Spock, “I will take the floor, tonight. A matter of personal comfort, nothing more.”


	16. Sweet and strong

They climb the old paved streets up to the modern conference centre. It overlooks the city. As they climb Uhura looks back at the glittering sea below. Above, beyond the campus, rocky pastures throng with low trees bearing masses of white flowers. Although it is still early, the heat is pouring from the dazzling blue sky.

Spock seems content in the high temperatures. Uhura thinks she should have abandoned protocol and worn her loose flowing sundress today.

It certainly could not increase the number of tines she sees Spock glancing at her while they walk.

"What is the significance of this?" he asks her, pointing at a ten foot high plaque with the face of a woman created using petals in all colours.

Uhura frowns. She is about to hazard a guess that it is a local saint's festival, when a young woman approaches them and confirms this.

Spock questions her. The girl is smiling, voluptuous in traditional costume, and carries around her neck many wreaths of white flowers. She explains about the saint, and Uhura sees the girl's eyes return again and again to Spock's ears.

Uhura and Spock move to continue their walk, but the girl stops them, saying, "There is the custom at this festival, to wish all others well with the bestowing of our holy flower." She presents Spock with the flower, clasping his hands and kissing him on both cheeks.

"Remarkable," says Spock. He puts the flower in his collar.

The girl steps back, a puzzled look on her face. "You are different," she says. "You are..."

"Vulcan," says Spock.

"No," she says. "You did not laugh or flirt."

"Vulcans conceal their emotions," says Spock gravely.

The girl's face clears. "Oh. That's good. For a moment I thought you don't feel anything. But if you just don't show it, then that's all right."

"Yes," says Spock softly, "that's exactly it."

Uhura stares at them, and goes hot all over. The girl has Spock's hand and is kissing it and smiling. She plucks another bloom from her garland and gives it to Spock, with a repeat of the kisses, a little more lingeringly this time. Spock submits, his eyes dark on the girl between kisses, and she holds his arms. Her invitation could not be clearer.

"One flower is for all people," the girl says. "Two flowers – for a friend. And three flowers –" she draws a third bloom from her wreath – "is for a lover."

Uhura opens her lips to speak and then remembers that Spock is merely her colleague. Otherwise she would start a sentence with  _Now wait just a minute here miss_  – and no doubt look very foolish.

The girl leans to kiss Spock, not on the cheek but the lips.

He dodges, returning the third flower to her hand and saying, "I am honoured by your offer but I must decline."

The girl pouts. "Why? –You must give a reason or the Saint will be deeply offended."

Spock turns, indicates Uhura. "And if I accept the third flower, my companion will be deeply offended."

"Damn right I will," snaps Uhura, stepping forward.

Spock's eyes flicker.

"I see," says the girl. She eyes Uhura, who stares a challenge. "Then friends." The flower girl smiles, with surprising grace, and she and Spock nod at each other. She moves away, calling her flower-blessings to other tourists in the street.

Spock turns to Uhura. "Thank you for corroborating my story."

"You're welcome," says Uhura, forcing her breath to settle down. "Although I thought Vulcans never lie."

"I do not believe I did lie," says Spock.

She eyes him. The sun is bright in his thick hair. The white blooms contrast with his black uniform, resting lightly against his neck. His stillness and calm spreads to her. "Ok. I guess you didn't."

"I do not completely understand why I did not, however," Spock says. "Why were you so offended?"

He faces her, standing on the kerb, other early morning pedestrians flowing around them. Shops and cafes are unfolding their awnings with metallic scrapes, the storekeepers calling greetings to each other.

"Well," says Uhura. She dreamed last night of being in Spock's arms, her lips on his hot neck as he kissed her hair and murmured to her. The image is sweet and strong like the coffee being sold from the small roadside wagon near their hotel. She gathers her thoughts. "This conference has a very demanding schedule and it would not be logical to expend valuable learning time in pursuit of a casual and short lived liaison."

She feels quite proud of herself for how this came out, especially since the version in her head included the phrases  _How dare she touch you, why could she kiss you when I can't_ , and, most disturbingly,  _it would break my heart if this was all it took to get close to you._

Spock tilts his head. "Yes. But perhaps the association would not be short term? Perhaps the third flower signified a more permanent bond?"

"I don't think so," says Uhura, flashing her eyes at him. "She had about a thousand of them." She sets her mouth and gives Spock a hard stare.

Spock glints at her, which she knows as his smile of amusement. "You are concerned that I would be a mere fading bloom in her collection?"

Her tension drifts off. She grins wickedly back. "I could never allow anyone to take advantage of your trusting nature. Sir."

"Just so," says Spock. "And now, in the spirit of the festival-"

He removes the two flowers from his collar, and gives them to her. No kisses, just his dark look, serious and wondering, and she takes them with a tremor in her stomach, because Vulcans don't have friends and yet Spock is asking her to be his.

* * *

They sit together at conference all day, work together, watch and listen together. There are other delegates from Starfleet and Spock greets them politely, assuming control of introductions because of his higher rank, but ending the conversation swiftly on each occasion. It is understood that this summit is their time, Spock's and Uhura's, and nothing will intrude.

Spock does look at her a great deal. Uhura can feel his gaze upon her even as she enjoys the lectures and debates, and there too, flickering behind her eyes, are the swirls of his interest and sharp intellect, ever in motion. He and she are not in physical contact, and she wonders how this is possible. He must be opening his mind to her.

Spock looks at her during a pause between speakers, that first afternoon, and she hears his voice in her head say firmly,  _experiment_.

She blinks.

His eyes widen.

The speaker arrives on the stage then and silence settles over the auditorium. Spock and Uhura stare at each other, and much of the discussion is lost on them.

 


	17. The unanswerable question

Spock tips fruit juices into two heavy tumblers and hands Uhura the nearest. She takes it from him, her fingers shrinking from contact with his. They have been avoiding touching, she realises, since that moment in her apartment when he held her hand and shared his feelings with her.

It seems such a waste. She sighs. Into the peaceful calm of their post-dinner relaxation she says, "I never realised how useful touch can be."

They are sitting at the little metal table on their balcony, Uhura in her white sundress, Spock in black coat and trousers, enjoying cool drinks and watching activity in the street.

Spock raises one eyebrow. "Useful?" he questions.

"Humans use touch as a means of communication," says Uhura.

"As do Vulcans," says Spock. He frowns quizzically.

"Yes," Uhura says, "but for humans it is a supplementary means. It communicates an extra dimension."

"Again, our two races are similar," says Spock.

"But a human could use touch as a way of telling someone they cared about them without actually having to say so," says Uhura.

"To what purpose?" asks Spock.

A good point. Efficiency? -Cowardice? Because all the words have already been said? None of these apply to her situation. Touch can be both more and less explicit than a spoken statement, as the moment requires. But with Spock, touching and telling have become the same thing, and so she dare not, because he has asked for friendship, and she respects him too much to insist on more.

Uhura leans back in her chair and pours more fruit punch from the thick green glass jug into each of their glasses. "The purpose, "she repeats. "Well, there's a question that can't be answered."

"All questions can be answered," says Spock.

She considers this. "Hmm." A game. "All right, how many leaves are there on a tree?"

"That depends on the tree," Spock replies steadily.

"But you cannot answer for all trees," says Uhura.

"But I have given an answer." His gaze drops to her mouth, then back up to her eyes.

"Ok, try this: what shape are clouds?" She adjusts the sundress's straps. Even on the balcony the air is close.

"Again you pose a question which pretends to be specific but which is so general as to be meaningless. Such a question has an infinite number of answers or its answer is that there are many scenarios."

"Or it cannot be answered at all."

"All questions can be answered." He is steadfast, but gazing at her with alert interest.

"Ok. How about this?" and she leans towards him, her hands on the small table close to his own. "Why do I prefer your company to anybody else's that I know?"

She stares at him, breathing quickly. She has dared herself to ask it, or really, to state it, given it cannot be answered, or at least, not by Spock.

He stares back, expressionless. Now that she knows him, however, she understands that blankness is an assumed facial composition. He is masking.

"I cannot answer that question," he replies slowly. "So I think you may have won your point."

_Dammit. I didn't want to win._

She inclines her head. "Ok." She is full of hurt at his rejection. Had he been Kirk, they'd be horizontal by now.

"However," Spock goes on, "I can repeat that same question for myself in an attempt to establish more fully if it is a truly unanswerable one."

It takes her a moment to unpick that. Then she does.

He is blinking and his mouth is pressed in at the corners.  _Nerves_ , she thinks.  _He is afraid to say this thing, that he likes me too._

She takes in a breath, finds it harder than usual. "A hundred percent of respondents agreed that the question had no answer," she whispers.

"Yes," he says. "-Although in fact there are many factors which may account for such a phenomenon, much as when considering the leaves on a tree."

"You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"I could but in this particular case I did not." He gives a small smile, as if trying it out.

She reaches out and touches his hand. His fingers betray a slight tremble, and then curl around hers with as much gladness as she hoped for.

Spock is looking across the street. "There is a path up the hill," he remarks. "I am curious to know where it leads, in particular, if the air is a little cooler above the town. Will you walk with me?"

She looks. The path runs between two buildings and emerges much higher up the hill, crossing an open field strewn with rocks and then disappearing beneath trees. It looks wild and empty, and the hillside is bathed in late afternoon sun. Spock is stroking the webbing between her fingers and for a moment she sees herself in the white dress standing among green trees, the breeze stirring the hem around her ankles. The image is sharp; in it the skin of her bare arms is glowing, looks perfect. Then Spock blinks and the vision is gone. "Yes," she says.

* * *

"Let us stop here," says Spock. He scans around, nods.

They are in a grove of white blossomed trees, high above the town, with boulders scattered between low-spreading trees with gnarled grey trunks, and tufts of coarse grass underfoot. The sun has dipped but is still golden and green between the leaves. And it  _is_  a little cooler up here.

"These are the flowers from the festival," says Uhura, tipping her head back to look up at blue sky through a lacework of white blossoms.

Spock crouches, takes a bloom from where it has fallen, inspects it. "Yes. The same species." He stands. "As it is still the time of the festival," he says, holding out the flower. "This is for you. If you will accept it."

She does. A single flower, she thinks. "For goodwill to all?" she says. He is not making any move to kiss her, even alone up here, surrounded by all these fragrant blooms. Misery fills her to her throat.

"No," Spock corrects her. "You have two flowers already. This is the third."

The petals are cool in her hand. Spock's eyes are intense. His stance is poised, breathless.

Uhura tucks the flower into her bodice. A moment or two goes by.

"You accept," says Spock.

"You. Yes," says Uhura. She hears the liquid song of birds hidden among the blossom.

She steps away, overwhelmed, and wanders a little further into the trees. Spock is with her, glancing at her as they walk, looking away then immediately back. His lips are parted but he does not speak.

Uhura stops. She is conscious of Spock, stopping close beside her. He is waiting, so is she, and now things are awkward and forced. "Oh," she says, turning to him. "Now I feel strange. With you. It's - nothing seems spontaneous."

"Spontaneity robs one of anticipation," says Spock, and kisses her.

* * *

He tastes of bitter spices, like a tea prepared over a flame in a desert tent. His arms are strong around her, and she hears  _Nyota_ , in her mind and feels his longing, a tangled knot of emotion too densely packed to grasp.

His eyes, open and directed at hers, are gentle, and his lips are soft. He kisses the outside of her mouth, and then presses his lips harder against hers, a chaste kiss but in her mind she hears her name, long and quiet like the breath you release as you emerge from the forest into the sun.

She wonders if kissing is a Vulcan custom too, or if he has learned it on Earth? His hands are on her shoulder blades, and she can feel each fingertip as a point of bright flame.

He is here, and willing, more than willing, and that is all she asked for. Spock closes his eyes and she feels his tension as he parts his lips. She moves her tongue to touch his, and his is hot, rough textured, definitely not human, and the knot of his longing unwinds suddenly into fierce hunger. His hands clench on her shoulders as he kisses her more passionately, touching the whole of her tongue and gasping a little into her mouth, a cry of surprise and want.

She squeaks too and they part, clutching at each other, flushed, eyes darting everywhere as each tries to regain composure.

"Nyota," says Spock, breathless. "You are - I can feel your desire -"

She tries to be nonchalant and fails.

"Here," he says touching his finger to her temple.

She does not know how to respond. He lays his palm on the back of her neck and she feels the pull of his need for her, a brilliant star behind her eyes, in her belly.

"It is powerful," whispers Spock.

She reaches up as she has longed to do and touches his face. "It is for you," she says. "Ever since I saw you." She deliberately remembers him, choosing her above all other students to work with, and her joy, and his shy amusement. Does he hear her, see and feel that?

Spock bends to kiss her again, and she feels his otherness once more, the strange shape of his tongue, the way his eyes remain steady even as his breathing and heart have become irregular, the way his hands grip her in what others might consider non-erogenous places - her elbows, the edge of her jaw and then, as he leans away to look at her with great tenderness, the lobes of her ears.

It is not painful - she pierced her ears at eleven and this is nothing like that - but it is weird and a bit harder than she was expecting. But he is gazing at her now, saying words in Vulcan which she struggles to make out and then he kisses her again, just lips, and rests his forehead against hers while holding her ears.

She of course must feel equally strange to him. His Vulcan girlfriends would not have such tiny ears, nor be so physically weak.

She wonders then about his past.

(A ripple of chill blue passes through her then, from him, but it is gone before she can interpret it.)

"Fascinating," breathes Spock, his fingers all over her ears. "I could do this for a long time."

She supposes this is a compliment.

She clings to him, pressing her body against his. She does not need psychic powers to be aware of his desire for her. It is quite obvious and as she tentatively moves her hands up to caress his ears - he closes his eyes and stands breathing through his mouth, which she takes as pleasure - a shiver rises through his mind and body, then drops again. "Spock," she whispers, "are you ok?"

"I am quite well," he says.

"I don't want to - do too much. Go too far." She sounds like some fainting teenager, afraid to be anything other than euphemistic. This is a joke considering she is standing with her arms around a man squeezing him ever nearer, and his hands are, now, pressing on the base of her spine, and his passion is hard against her.

"I retain control of my impulses," he says in his normal voice.

"Ok," she says.

He puts his lips to the tip of her right ear.

"I might not be able to retain control of mine," she says. "I don't want to - startle you. Put you off. Persuade you to more than you are willing to -" He is kissing her ear and exploring with his tongue. Flickering pulses of pink and orange are firing through her upper body.

"I like the effect this has on you," he says. "It has my - interest."

"Spock. -Spock!"

He ceases his attentions to her ear for a moment.

"We should - go somewhere -" she says. Thought is disintegrating, with his hands roaming her back, caressing her ribs, her waist, her bottom.

He clasps her and sinks to the forest floor.

"Not here -"

"The chances of anyone happening upon us are less than three percent," says Spock. He has caught her with one arm, and now rolls so that they are lying under a tree, she with her head resting on his left arm, he propped on that arm gazing down at her. "We are alone," he says.

"Ok, but..." He planned this, he totally planned it. The flowers, the walk, this sunlit grove.

He inclines his head. "I understand. There are modesty issues."

"There are sharp twig issues."

He laughs. She has never heard it before and it is beautiful, like summer rain on a lake; she feels the humour in increasing circles.

His lips are on her shoulder, nudging aside the straps of the dress. His right hand runs down her ribs, hesitating over the edge of her breast. She pulls him nearer so that she can taste his skin, him, in passion. Her own name fills her head and he tastes of cinnamon, and gold.

* * *

Spock places his mouth on Uhura's collarbone and absorbs her sense of him. She tastes of mango juice, rich and sharp. She is calling his name in her mind and her fingers are on his coat, unfastening. He kneels up to assist, flinging the jacket down and shifting them so that she lies on the thick black cloth instead of the ground.

She has no doubts, no hesitation about this act, this intimacy, with him. She considers him... perfect. He can barely breathe. He kisses her again and again, and watches for any hint of No as he moves her skirts aside to lay one hand on her bare thigh.

Her hands are on his jersey, tugging to lift it over his head. Her face is in his chest, breathing into the dark hair which runs down to his navel. Then she is looking seriously at him and her hands are on the back of his belt, sliding underneath, loosening-

He has never been naked with another person. She laughs breathily and tells him he is beautiful.

She does not know all of him and yet she knows enough and still she believes him the most wonderful person she has ever known, and bathed in this Spock cannot be afraid. He is speaking, uttering words as her hands travel over him, he does not know what he is saying.

Her touch is deft and sure and as she rolls them, pushing him onto his back, her hand never leaving his skin, he realises that his vision is about to come true and yet be proven wrong, simultaneously. She is leaning over him, the top of his right ear is completely in her mouth -her cool touch, new yet right - and he has never known anything so erotic.

She shimmies against him, wrapping her arms round him. "Protection," she whispers next to his ear and he fumbles in his upturned coat for the spray, one dab in his mouth, one in hers and the canister disappears into the grass as she kisses him and her need fills his mind. "Nyota," he says, but her hands are on him, wondering, delicate. She is thinking of his tongue, extrapolating. "Our forms are physically compatible," he says automatically as her fingers hesitate. His thumb traces her brow, cheekbone, jaw, collecting sparks of her pleasure. She is thinking,  _Yes, now, Spock, perfect,_ and he grips her and pulls her into him, all of her affection and radiance, his fierce pride and passion, and they pass beyond anything but want and love, and thought vanishes into touch and he cries out her name.

* * *

They sprawl in the tangle of their clothes, her cheek on his chest and her hand entwined with his, her discarded dress forming a sheet over them. The sun is sinking towards the sea and it will no doubt be dark as they retrace the path back to their hotel. Spock is not concerned. He brought light with him and anyway, he has excellent night vision.

She is beautiful and generous and skilled and she is, now, his lover. He marvels at this new concept.

There was a moment when she realised, when she understood his past history, or the absence of it.

"Why didn't you say?" she asks, pausing.

"I was afraid you would not love me. That you would reject me." The admission is painful.

"No!" Her outrage, so human, so welcome.

"My lack of experience -" It has brought them to a halt.

"Hush," she says at once. "It's only the present moment that matters."

She is so wise. She is absolutely correct.

He feels her wishing to reassure him, to comfort and soothe him, but while this is pleasant, he wants her hunger.

She hesitates over a confession he already knew was coming. "Spock - you do know that I -I have had boyfriends. Before."

He tries not to see how many. "Logically this should reassure me," says Spock, "but -"

He sees how the blade of his jealousy slices through her. She stretches her jaw, exhales a couple of times. "Wow. You know, I shouldn't, but I like it that you want to ..." She is silent, assessing his feelings. "...Take everything I've ever known with other people and -"

"Obliterate it," says Spock, and kisses her hard, his fingers in her hair, his eyes black.

"Oh yes," she says, and all doubts are forgotten.

* * *

They lie back and watch as the sky dims and stars compete with the glow from central Lima. Uhura's gaze is soft on him. She feels pride at having been first, at having been the person to show him certain things. This makes no logical sense, but he does not mind. The emotions are hers to feel.

His own are mixed. A rapid audit finds many expected sensations – chief of which is blissful exhaustion – and a froth of complex emotions which will take many hours of meditation to co-ordinate. This is acceptable. Meditation on anger and frustration is a necessary part of life. He suspects that meditation on satisfaction, body and mind, will be no chore.

He pushes his fingers in between hers, the human hand clasp, and feels her shiver with acceptance and love.

However there is something he must say. He knows he must act and so there will be no delay. Delaying an action is not likely to reduce its predicted negative impact. And so -

He is delaying. Her influence? Or his own weakness, wishing to shield her from probably unpalatable truths?

\- There is fulfilment, but there must also be honesty. He cannot allow her to continue, not knowing. He is afraid, though, of her horror and despite.

She feels his fear. "What, what's wrong?"

"I am betrothed to a Vulcan woman," he says. "We are - bonded."

She flinches, sits up, careless of the dress falling away from her in the twilight. She is taken aback, but before the pinch of hurt can properly form in her mind he adds, "She is my duty. You are my choice."

"Oh," she says. Grabs the dress and pulls it up around herself. "And will you ... continue to do your duty?" She is imagining him disappearing – on leave? - To go and see this person – sleep with her -

He sits too. "Thus far duty has been deferred," he says. He hesitates. "I will endeavour to ensure that it continues to be so."

She stares at him, breathing hard. Then she grips his shoulders and pushes him down, her palm on his sternum as his back hits the ground. "Are you mine?" she demands. Her knees are either side of his thighs. " _Are you mine?"_

"A person cannot belong to another per-"

"You know what I mean! Tell me!"

"Yes." There is no other answer. And he knows, now, what he will do. If she allows it. He suspects the process is already underway, without either of them even considering it.

She sobs then and holds his face and bends to kiss him, just gently and tenderly, and a tear escapes and drops onto his cheek.

He is amazed. Her tear runs off him and she is full of love and worry that he will not remain with her, will not continue to choose her. "Do not be distressed," he tells her. "I value you above all other women."

She laughs and sobs at once.

He holds her and brings her ear close to his lips. "I cherish you," he says, trying it out, and she smothers her mouth against his neck, kissing him again. Her hands slide over his chest and ribs, and her hips writhe into place against his, he only half ready but in a moment he is there and she is pulling him against her hungrily and his hands force her closer. She feels  _Nyota, we are together always_  in her mind, a question, and as she closes her eyes on the  _Yes,_  there is a new layer over it, a film of silk or dew fixing her there in his mind, in his being, and then the film reaches out for her and clings to her, spreading throughout her. For long seconds she forgets his physical closeness and is lost in his mind as he encloses her completely with a veil of possession. Then he cries out, his hips judder and she feels his release. She gasps as their different angle gives new sensations, and then as he lies gasping and panting she feels his mind again, deliberately drawing her in, seeking sensation, touching what feels like her head, her temples, behind her eyes and then soaring down through her breast and belly and between her legs and deep inside and even as she opens her mouth to – what? –shriek – whimper – sob – he shivers underneath her and she has  _Spock perfect forever_  in her mind and throughout her body as he fills her with the hard and urgent fire of his love.

 


	18. Situation normal

The first time she notices him it is so slight and subtle that she thinks it must be her imagination. She is at the grey-lit comms desk of the shuttle  _Colfer_ , preparing for routine undocking and passage to the shipyards where the flagship _Enterprise_  is being built. The graduating class have been granted a tour of what may become Starfleet's new long range vessel, but there is a catch to having just earned your wings: you have to fly yourself.

Their crafts are not glamorous, or even fast. Kirk has the helm of this small workaday taxi and is already rolling his eyes at how the controls don't go up to eleven. McCoy is running logistics as first officer and trying to dissuade Kirk from frying the ship with a fancy landing manoeuvre at the spacedock.

Others of their class, and staff, are at the remaining bridge stations, or packed into the passenger decks. There are two shuttles launching for the  _Enterprise_  tour today, and Spock has command of the other one, the equally mundane _Horowitz_.

Uhura kissed him goodbye inside his quarters before they left this morning. It was hard to part. They have been inseparable since Lima, finding excuses to be in each other's company, revelling in their new intimacy and, in Uhura's case at least, the secret thrill of breaking several minor social taboos at once. Spock has remained urbane as always, but Uhura can feel his thoughts and knows fully the passion that swirls within him.

"Be good," she said as they clung together. This would be the first time they have had to appear in public, together yet - as they have agreed - unacknowledged. Discretion is required for the sake of both their careers. There has been no talk of the future, but catching glimpses of Spock's mind, Uhura knows that Spock hopes for theirs to be a long-lasting association.

"I have no intention of infringing any of Starfleet's regulations -" Spock began seriously.

Uhura smiled through a sigh, and kissed him again. In the contact she sent,  _Colloquialism, Spock! Some language expert you are_ , and a flash of affection to take the sting from the insult.

"Context is required for meaning in most cases and this is no exception " Spock said primly, but his hand rested on the nape of her neck and she sensed  _I will not be parted from you,_  alongside,  _your teasing intrigues me more each day_ , and a sunburst of anticipation of the time when they could be close again.

They hugged, cheek to cheek, until finally Uhura said, "I have to go," and they gazed into each other's eyes and Spock opened the door and Uhura walked away, brisk and efficient, not looking back.

Now, at her station, Uhura hears Spock say, "Confirm the passenger listing," and turns to him but he is not here, he is on the  _Horowitz_ , on a parallel approach to their own, aiming for the neighbouring dock.

"McCoy," she says, pulling the earphone away for a moment, "did you just ask me to check the passenger listing?"

McCoy is scowling from the effort of Kirk micromanagement. "No. We checked numbers before launch. It's all good."

"Ok. Sorry." Uhura returns to monitoring the spacedock. The dock crew are ready for their visitors, but need to scan the incoming ships for security. The flagship is tightly protected. Only authorised vessels may approach the spacedock, and only Starfleet personnel are allowed to disembark.

"The passenger listing," says Spock, distinctly, and this time Uhura knows she did not imagine it. She puts a call to the Horowitz. " _Colfer_  to  _Horowitz_ , Uhura here. Did you just send us a request?"

It is Garrick on the other end. " _Colfer_ , this is  _Horowitz_ , Garrick here. We made no request, repeat, no request." Garrick cuts the connection. A rare display of protocol, for her - usually she has to be restrained from using inter-ship comms as a grandiose chat line.

Uhura sits still, monitoring the flow of communication between the spacedock and the  _Colfer's_  docking crew, and thinking.

She head Spock. But Spock is not here. She has heard him like that, before.  _Experiment_.

Contact telepathy. That is how it works. When he touches another, he can, if he chooses, detect thoughts and emotions from that person or send his own thoughts outward. Uhura knows now that she can send to Spock, too - not as powerfully, but with some degree of control. She is, Spock has said, possessed of latent abilities, and being closely associated - his words - with a telepath has tapped into her talent. She can feel his emotions, hear some of his thoughts.

-When they are together, touching. Or... sitting in close proximity at the conference in Lima. Were they touching then? They were sitting close together.

So what just happened?

She calls up Garrick again. " _Horowitz_ , this is  _Colfer_  requesting a status check."

A pause, then. Uhura repeats the request and gets no reply. She is just about to scan other channels in case of a malfunction when Garrick's voice sounds in Uhura's ear.

" _Colfer_ , this is  _Horowitz_. Situation normal. Status is clear for docking, awaiting security clearance."

"Thank you. Status confirmed. You are docking first." Uhura breaks off.

"Check your passenger list." Spock's voice again. "Nyota."

That does it. He is talking to her. Secretly. Not in a romantic way - he is working - but with urgency.

"Commander," Uhura says, swivelling her chair to face McCoy as he stands at Kirk's right shoulder. "Permission to check the passenger lists. I have an area of concern."

"What's up, Uhura?" demands Kirk. He is lounging in the captain's chair, having already discovered that ninety percent of being in charge is watching other people do the work.

"I just want to check our passenger list. For anomalies." She sounds foolish now, because she does not have a reason.  _My boyfriend told me telepathically to do it,_ does not strike her as appropriate. It is a little close to,  _the voices in my head made me_.

"I checked it already," McCoy says, but flips his PADD to her nonetheless.

Uhura scans the names. Dozens of her classmates and tutors.

She shuts her eyes a moment even though McCoy and Kirk are staring.  _Spock_.  _What am I looking for?_

There is a pause.

She frowns at the names, faking comprehension as Kirk raises his eyebrows at McCoy.

Then:  _Failures_.

That's it. She takes deep breaths and tries to feel, to hear more, to reach out and sense Spock, but there is nothing. And it occurs to her that this is the first time since Lima that she has not been aware of him in the back of her mind.

And then she becomes afraid.

"Failures," she mutters. "And Garrick never just signs off."

"What's wrong?" Kirk asks in a new tone, leaning towards her.

Uhura jabs at the comms desk grimly. "There's something wrong with the  _Horowitz_. A pause before acknowledgement. And - I just caught something - about our passenger list." The bridge recorder will not bear her out on that last assertion, but she needs other eyes to see what she cannot.

She holds the list out to Kirk. "There's something funny about this. But I can't see what."

Kirk takes the list with a slow, steady look at her. Ready to be scathing. He reads the names more rapidly than she would have thought possible. "Hundred and two," he remarks at the end. "All different. All people we try to sleep with or avoid. So what?"

He is ready to toss the PADD back to McCoy when McCoy says, "Failure," and grabs it. He jabs at a name. "Harrison. He didn't graduate. He flunked out."

They stare at the name. John Harrison. A fair haired, freckled kid. Failed the final exam. Left the Academy. -Is not cleared to be on this trip.

"Check the  _Horowitz's_  list," Kirk says. His eyes are cold.

They find three non graduates on that list too.

"My god," breathes McCoy. "It's a hijack."

* * *

**Author's note:**  I have been busy with other projects these last few weeks but now I am back and ready to finish this story. You may recognise the names of these small ships as those of two of my favourite authors, Eoin Colfer and Anthony Horowitz. I'd love to name my ships the way the late great Iain Banks did - GSV Class  _No More Mr Nice Guy_ , and so on - but firstly, he's already done that so well, and secondly, nothing I could think of was at all humorous.

Thanks to all who have read and reviewed this fic so far, and i hope you like these last few segments of action, teamwork, and a little resolution for Spock and Uhura. There was going to be one final chapter and then I thought of a new way of ending this story which leads to something else, (spoilers!) so there will be more chapters after this one. -Sef

 


	19. Every moment is now

Spock runs.

He spent a long time feigning unconsciousness and listening, until he was sure: his shuttle was empty - the noise of the engine on standby was sharp and clear, no human sounds at all - and the other shuttle had docked alongside this one at the shipyard, and that the crew of both crafts had disembarked, half shepherded by armed terrorists, half springing voluntarily into the danger, unarmed and led, undoubtedly, by Jim Kirk.

And now Spock is in the echoing interior of the space dock and shipyard, racing to find Kirk and end this insurrection.

He reaches frequently for Uhura as he sprints from the shuttle onto the long metal walkway of the dock. She became aware of their contactless link before Harrison pounded Spock over the head, and she even used it to request clarification. She will expect explanation later (a complication of association with a human female) but for now Spock trusts that she will simply accept this new tool at her disposal and put it to good use.

There is a problem, however. He cannot hear her.

Fear grips him - fear for her, a new addition to his selection of wayward emotions. He sets it aside.

The dock area is empty. Suspicious. Harrison and his companions must have overpowered the staff here. But with three of them only to do so? Impossible. And the Academy students, though unarmed and under threat, outnumber the hijackers thirty three to one. Spock taught those young men and women. They would not surrender without a greater threat than three terrorists with guns.

So what is the threat? And what is the plan?

Spock sees the control room for the docking area: a glass box overlooking the vast hangar. He takes the stairs up to it two at a time. His weapon was removed by the scrawny Harrison (a great dishonor, but Spock was bound hand and foot at the time) so he must use a kick to open the locked door.

Inside are uniformed men and women with frightened faces. "Don't hurt us! We'll do whatever you ask."

Spock blinks. "I mean you no harm. I am here to stop Harrison and his accomplices in whatever they plan. Do you know what that is?" Head shakes. "Please contact Starfleet." He taps the comms deck.

"No way," says the dock commander. He is a weighty man with the launch of one who has not renewed his Starfleet fitness test for a long while. "These intruders are monitoring all comms."

Spock observes with scorn the man's sweating face and large belly. Also his stripes. Spock outranks him."Then perhaps your call will bring them back so that I can overpower them. Do it!"

As the call is made, Spock scans security video. And his mind is working.

The attack is focused on the new flagship  _Enterprise_ , that is certain. To destroy it, shame the Starfleet - all might be logical, at least in the minds of terrorists. But why involve the graduating class of the Academy? Harrison was a failure, his comrades too - is this some bitter attempt to tarnish the institution which found them wanting? If the rest of the cadets were apparently engaged in a plot against Starfleet -

Anyone who believed that to be plausible must be not only a criminal but also stupid.

Therefore the cadets are needed for some other purpose. What can Starfleet students do?

Spock barely needs to consider for a moment. Of course.

They can fly a starship.

* * *

"This is madness, Jim!"

"And yet you're still here." Kirk glances at McCoy and gives a wink. "Don't pretend this isn't more fun than some dried-up tour."

They are on board another starship in the space dock, the one nearest the  _Enterprise_. The cadets crept through the dock with commendable stealth, Kirk leading, and Uhura to the rear, reluctantly impressed at his immediate command of the situation.

McCoy is wrestling with the unlock codes on this starship's engine. "Let me," says Uhura, and through a series of rapid deductions determines that the code is the proposed name of the ship they have boarded. "The security here is shameful! No wonder Harrison and his little band found it so easy to get on board the Enterprise."

"No need for big security," says Kirk. "There hasn't been a terrorist threat for twenty years."

"I think we can reset the counter today," McCoy says. "Stealing the flagship and plummeting towards the home planet probably counts as a threat."

"Online," says Uhura. She tries to focus on the job, and not on Kirk and McCoy's bickering.

"Engines fire," orders Kirk, and the cadets all around them leap to action.  
The Enterprise, looming above them in the enormous grip of its docking clamps, is already online. Their classmates are operating it. And even before he arrived here, Harrison had issued a threat to those on Kirk's shuttle: keep clear or be blasted as the  _Enterprise_  leaves the shipyard. With state of the art weapons.

That was never going to win Kirk's co-operation, Uhura reflects. And it has not. Instead of complying with the request from the terrorists, Kirk led the cadets into the shipyard and entered the ship lying closest to the  _Enterprise_. His plan is to block them, physically block them with the other ship, meanwhile sending warnings ahead to Earth.

There is only one problem with this plan.

This other starship is not finished.

"It'll never make warp speed," comes a lilting Celtic voice from the engine room. "Half the boosters are missing. You'll struggle to manoeuvre."

"I can handle it," says Kirk. McCoy looks incredulous.

"I think we need a new plan," says Uhura. "Is the transport room online?"

"Too dangerous," says McCoy, grasping her idea.

But predictably Kirk likes it. He leaves a fellow cadet at the helm of the not-finished starship and heads for the elevator.

"I'm coming with you," Uhura says. Kirk starts to protest and then plainly cannot be bothered. Uhura gives him a haughty nod as he ushers her off the bridge and into the elevator.

They stand necessarily close together during the descent, and Uhura senses that despite the blatant inappropriateness of the situation, Kirk is assessing her potential as a mate. She glares at him.

_Spock. Where are you?_

Nothing.

Hiding her despair, she races with Kirk to the transport room, where the youngest-looking cadet she has ever seen is waiting to beam them across to the Enterprise.

* * *

The dock security video shows the  _Enterprise_  online and preparing to depart. Spock exclaims in frustration. Once it is in free space, there will be little chance to stop it without risking the life of every cadet on board.

Then he notices activity elsewhere in the shipyard. Given that all staff have been rounded up and are now locked in a parts supply area, it can only be Kirk.

Another ship has come online. But it is only part-built. The shell is complete, and fitting has been begun, but systems are only partially installed.

Yet it seems to be preparing to depart. Insanity.

It cannot hope to chase the  _Enterprise_ , much less catch it.

Although... Perhaps it need not catch it. Perhaps there is another way.

As he sprints from the room, Spock catches the on-screen blink which indicates persons beamed from starship to starship. More of Kirk's impulsive bravado.

Spock's legs pump faster.

* * *

The transport room of the  _Enterprise_  is empty. The cadets must all be focused on the engine room and other vital controls.

"I guess they weren't expecting visitors," says Kirk.

"If we go to the bridge, Harrison will overpower us," Uhura says. "We need to be more subtle." She presumes this is a word known in theory to Kirk, if not in practice.

"What do you suggest, Uhura?" he asks.

She thinks. ( _Spock_. Spock would know.) "How else can we cripple them?"

"They can't be everywhere at once," Kirk says. "Three of them. I imagine one of them has a gun to the Commander's head and everyone is obeying orders in that basis. Relying on cameras to confirm that everyone is doing what they're told." He frowns.

"Spock would incapacitate himself rather than be used in that way," says Uhura. Her stomach is churning. Is that why she cannot hear him? Has he sacrificed his own life in order to remove his worth as a hostage?

"In any case there's a hundred of us and three of them." Kirk dismisses her concerns. "Let's hit the engine room and persuade our classmates to mutiny."

Uhura hesitates.  _Spock_.  _Spock_! Nothing. "No," she says then. "That would guarantee a fight. Let's try to do this without killing anyone."

He is waiting.

"The medbay will be fitted," she says. "And Harrison won't know which shuttle we're from. Let's get close to him somehow and knock him out. Gas. An injection."

"Hmmm." Kirk considers. His face crumples in a frown. Then he brightens. "All right," he says. "Let's do both."

* * *

As a strategy Spock admires its nerve - whilst simultaneously condemning its stupidity. He is on the bridge of the half-made starship, and McCoy is co-ordinating efforts from the rest of the cadets to the sending of a secret message back to Starfleet. There has been no luck as yet, and no word from Kirk and Uhura who clearly plan somehow to overpower Harrison's team. "I confess I am disappointed in you, Doctor. That you would endorse such a scheme -"

"All right, so you got a better idea. Let's hear it." McCoy is even more defensive than normal.

"It is very simple. I plan to prevent the ship's leaving. Much as you would yourself restrain a patient who was a danger to himself or others." Spock allows himself a tiny smile at the comparison.

McCoy narrows his eyes. "Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

Spock tilts his head. "I do not know. That depends on-"

"All right, all right! Let's do it."

"And then I too will beam to the  _Enterprise_. Kirk will need backup, and Harrison still has my phaser."

* * *

The  _Enterprise_  gleams. Every surface appears polished. Bright lights reflect off all the shiny fittings. The floors squeak, they are so new and fresh and untrodden.

Uhura and Kirk stand obediently on the bridge, hands folded behind their backs, at semi-attention as if awaiting orders from Harrison, who is sprawled in the Captain's chair, his expression full of arrogant scorn.

Harrison speaks. "Ok. Let's get this show on the road. This bird is fast and deadly. We'll have taken LA before Starfleet even notices." He chuckles and the cadets shuffle uncomfortably. If Harrison spots any insubordination he has promised to shoot a person a minute, starting with the women.

Typical chauvinism, thinks Uhura. Assumption of the weakness of one gender and the protective instincts of another. He better shoot the women, because now they are all ticked off and any one of them could take him down if he didn't have a weapon dangling carelessly from his right hand. Garrick is looking poisonous and Uhura knows she can rely on her friend to help if, when, things get violent.

Kirk edges closer to Harrison. Uhura sidles in too. Spock is not on board and she learned from cadets they met in their way to the bridge, that he was left unconscious on the shuttle. How badly hurt, nobody knows. Uhura sets worry aside and concentrates on her task: jabbing Harrison with the medbay microneedle, when the cadets from the engine room arrive en masse having overpowered Harrison's lieutenant.

But the cadets do not arrive and now Harrison is firing up the Enterprise's engines.

Uhura is wondering how she will cross to Harrison without attracting his suspicion when the bridge doors swish open. Spock stands there, his face set.

"Spock!" cries Kirk, and as Harrison turns in surprise, Kirk darts forward to grab the terrorist leader's weapon. "What are you doing here?"

"Providing the distraction you so obviously required," says Spock. He and Kirk restrain Harrison.

Uhura takes one second to lock eyes with Spock - one second to know, to share that he lives and loves her and she is here and loves him - and then steps to the comms deck to update Starfleet. As her hand touches the switch a judder shakes the  _Enterprise_  and throws her sideways.

Kirk's grip on Harrison slips as the bridge pitches under them. "Impact!" cries a cadet in confusion as klaxons sound through the ship.

The engines scream.

Harrison flails, and scrambles away but Uhura lifts her arm and sticks him with the needle. He staggers, aiming punches at her which she ducks.

"Somebody shut the engines down!" barks Kirk. "And what was that impact?"

Harrison, stumbling, says, "You can't shut it down." He gives a drunken laugh as another massive jolt shakes the ship. "You might have me but we're leaving anyway. This ship is programmed - and it's heading to Earth on a direct course for the Academy!"

"We will stop you," Uhura tells him. Cadets swarm around him and his associates, and start applying handcuffs. Kirk punches controls on the captain's chair but the Enterprise does not respond.

"You're too late," Harrison slurs as the drug kicks in. "Only I know the override code -" He drops like a stone, his eyes already closed, and his head hits the corner of the comms desk. He lies spreadeagled on the floor of the bridge with his head at an angle, showing a nasty cut. There is blood, a great deal of blood, and when Uhura bends to Harrison to check him, he is dead.

Kirk exclaims. "Now what do we do? Spock, I'll have to try to hack the autopilot - will you help?"

"Your willingness to acknowledge the value of others' skills is a welcome development," said Spock, bowing his head, "but there would not be time to reprogram the ship before it reached its destination. However, do not fear. It may not be the optimum outcome, but I have already ensured that this ship cannot leave space dock."

"Spock, the engines will be at full power in another ten seconds," says Uhura. "How can you say the ship won't leave?"

"We will have to destroy it," says Kirk. "Let's get back to the other starship and see if the weapons are online -"

"There is no need," says Spock. "Although evacuation would be a good plan. This ship cannot be taken offline, but also it cannot leave dock."

"Why?" demand Kirk and Uhura in unison.

"Because I have manually fastened the docking clamps," says Spock calmly.

* * *

McCoy organises the cadets back onto the  _Colfer_  and  _Horowitz_. "Get 'em fired up to go," he says grimly. "We need everyone on board before this place rips itself to pieces."

"The dock crew are on their way," Uhura calls. He smiles at her and she at him.

The  _Enterprise_  is straining at the clamps which keep it in dock. Soon it will break free, but it will never complete its journey. The clamps are locked tight all around and while the engines might power the heart of the ship towards free space, it will crack and splinter before it ever flies.

Kirk carried Harrison in board and he lies wrapped in a sheet on the bridge of the  _Colfer_. Uhura contacted Starfleet command, and they will take charge from the moment of the shuttles land. The destruction of the  _Enterprise_  and space dock is to be classed an accident, the hijacking and treachery by former Starfleet cadets is to be kept secret. It is obvious to everyone that Harrison's name will never be heard of again.

"I believe we should leave, Captain," Spock says to Kirk, glancing at the large monitor. "Immediately and with some speed."

"Don't encourage him," mutters Uhura.

They assume stations, and as Kirk gives the order to undock, Spock's mind bumps Uhura's. She is there, but without touch he feels only the vaguest of responses from her. She cannot detect him. The swirl and swim of her thoughts are reacting to what she can see and hear and feel, and not to the touch of his mind.

Loss swells within Spock. His injury. The blow to his head. It has snapped the burgeoning bond between him and Uhura.

She turns to him and smiles.

"Good work today, Cadet," Spock says. His face is neutral and calm.

"Thank you, Commander."

She glances around and Spock knows she is checking that they are not observed. Then she reaches out as if to adjust a control on the deck in front of Spock, and her wrist rests over the back of his hand for a second.

Love bursts between them in gold and silver blooms, petals springing from within petals until their vision is awash with bright flowers. The flowers fade to white, the brilliance of silky blossom dappled by Peruvian sunlight...

Spock moves his hand and frowns at the screen.

Uhura makes a tiny adjustment to the comms. "Is there a problem, Commander?"

Their elbows brush. It is crowded on the shuttle with more than the normal number aboard. Personal space has shrunk almost to nothing.

Spock's mouth and jaw remain stern, but his eyes gleam and he is sending  _Uhura, Spock, together,_  very soon.

Uhura says, "We will all be needing some R and R after this. It turns out a tour can be pretty tiring. I could lie down right now and just sleep."  _Not a chance_ , is in her head.

"Rest would be logical," Spock replies, but he is thinking,  _I can defy logic_   _should I wish._

The  _Colfer_  launches away into free space and heads for Earth, the  _Horowitz_  close behind. The space dock, empty now, might not survive the incident, but meanwhile it is clasping starships in its arms, silent and incomplete starships except for one, the brightest one, which is roaring like a caged animal and hurling itself at its bonds. Already the sparkling white hull is cracking, as the engines urge speed and the docking clamps resist.

Spock and Uhura wear serious expressions and have eyes only for the comms deck.

Behind them, the Enterprise tears itself slowly apart. On the shuttle the cadets are edgy and relieved. And Uhura thinks of logic and love, and ducks her head down over her work, and smiles.

* * *

Landing manoeuvres have begun and soon members of Starfleet high command will board and take over, but for now the  _Colfer_  is still their ship.

Uhura watches Spock from across the bridge. Kirk has control, and oddly this feels right. Spock stands at Kirk's shoulder, not hovering, merely observing. He is ready to intervene at the first sign of a violation, but thus far Kirk is playing it by the book and has given Spock no chance to step in.

McCoy is close by too, commanding the manoeuvres, and looking at Kirk as if amazed that Kirk has even seen the book long enough to be playing by it. Kirk pulls a face at him. Spock ignores that and tilts his head to one side. Kirk rolls his eyes and makes a slight adjustment to their course.

This is communication, Uhura thinks, watching them. In her ear, many voices and languages compete as they weave through Earth space, crossing the new equivalent of international waters. Just as she can pick out the relevant stream of words to guide them home, so Kirk and McCoy and Spock can, when they choose, distinguish from each other's body language enough data to hold a full conversation, and run a ship.

There is no need for telepathy. Or rather, in this moment, telepathy is here, on the bridge, and they all have it.

She misses the intimacy of true exchange with Spock and looks forward to the moment when they can be close again. But now she knows that once again Spock has made a wise choice, in her, because she is strong, and she can contemplate long separation from him, as their jobs require, with pain but without regret. There is a bond between them, no longer of the mind, but of the heart, which will last until one of them chooses otherwise. If neither chooses, then it will continue until death.

In their work, as Spock reminded her before they left for this tour, early death is the most likely outcome.

"Right, we have to live for the moment," she'd replied laughing, little knowing how soon that ideal would be put to the test as Spock lay unconscious and she faced a life without him.

"Every moment is infinite and every moment is already passed," Spock said.

She had sent him, then, her image of him, of them, serene and content, in his office that very first day. It was a perfect moment, and in it he was fixed and solid and everything swirled around him and formed into the moment they were then sharing, alone in his quarters.

He was correct, she thought as they entwined on his bed. Every moment is now, and the past accumulates in the moment and the future is forever being born. "Spock," she said, as he dimmed the lights with a flick of his slender fingers, "I love you too much to think about forever. I want to just - be here, with you, right now. I realise that's not logical."

Spock glinted at her in the twilight. "Love is not logical," he said, "and yet still it exists."

And as they tangled together in contented comfort, it was clear that Spock was right.

Uhura smiles at Spock now, on the tiny bridge of the  _Colfer_ , while Kirk is frowning at his console and McCoy is scowling at the high-handedness of their superiors. Spock meets her gaze with tranquil blandness. She smiles more. She has seen behind his mask of serenity, and knows the passion he keeps locked down with meditation and logic. When he looks calmly, innocently at her now, she must consider that it is in direct opposition to the amount of feeling he is suppressing. And poised beside the captain's chair which will one day be his, Spock looks very, very calm.

Logically their association cannot remain secret. Simultaneous absences will be noticed. Deductions will be made. Their liaison will be out. Emotionally Uhura wants that, wants to tell the world about her love for this amazing man. How can she conceal his perfection?

For the moment, though, this is their decision, that Uhura will adopt a Vulcan attitude in public, and Spock, a human one in private. Given their cross cultural, cross species relationship, this is entirely logical. Uhura thinks she should probably protest at being dictated to in this matter of the heart, by pure logic. But then she looks at Spock, and what they share, and she understands, as she has always understood when it comes to him: sometimes logic, after all, is a sign of love.

x

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x

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* * *

**Author's Note.**  Thank you all so much for your follows, favourites and reviews. I hope you have enjoyed this and like the ending. I had to go with the classic, in which you need a new ship at the end of any adventure... if you liked my Spock try my Sherlock in A Vintage Heart for how another logical and reasoning man handles love for a strong and independent woman...sequins, murder and vintage music abounds. Meanwhile there may be more Trek, as I have greatly enjoyed writing all of these characters! We'll have to see. Thanks again for all your feedback. -Sef

 


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